This time around things are different, and these differences should be known before jumping into this one blindly. The process isn’t new, but it’s certainly different.
Don’t Get Caught Up On One Lender
Many lenders are requiring that 1st draw recipients get their loans forgiven before they’re allowed to make a second draw request. They’re rejecting the PPP2 loan application, on these second round borrowers. This is not a requirement of the SBA or the IRS. This is only your lender being a pain. If you’re running into this situation, go shopping for another bank.
Be Prepared For A Longer Approval Process
The government has put an actual approval process in place this time. Given the fraud that occurred the first time, they aren’t rubber stamping these and pushing the money out the door as quickly as possible. 4.7% of these loans are being rejected given problems on the application. Make sure that your application is perfect before submission.
Data Is Critical
Get a list of the data necessary for the application before applying. Gather and review it prior to submission. Once your application is in, don’t be surprised if they ask for additional items. Again, they aren’t rubber stamping this one.
Watch For Updates
As is common for any government program that’s pushed out quickly, they’re going to be updating this one for months to come just like the last one. Don’t presume they’re done by any means.
I’ll continue to write about this as additional information comes out.
Let me leave you with this.
It’s a Sunday afternoon after church, and the anticipation builds as I get closer. Everyone in the neighborhood is walking in the same direction; a sea of Cubby blue and pinstripes all going to the same place. Walking east on Addison from my usual parking spot off Racine, the soft afternoon sun filters through the maple trees onto the parkway. As the avenue opens up, that great red sign boasts a message.
“Wrigley Field. Home of. Chicago Cubs.”
It might as well say home, because to all of us, that’s exactly what it was. Every summer that I’ve lived, except the last one, I’ve come here to watch the team that we all love. This pilgrimage isn’t taken lightly for a Northsider. Something inside seems to brighten and awaken as I get out my tickets and walk through the turnstiles. Then, as if I’ve been a fish out of water for entirely too long, I’m there. I’m finally home.
I immediately feel the crush of humanity. Young boys in pinstriped hats and jerseys with an outfield glove on one hand, are hoping to catch their first fly ball. Older grey-haired ladies in Cubbies blue wear the jersey of their favorite player from the sixties or seventies. Young girls in pink jerseys and high heels bounce as they strut by on the fairway. Older men who’ve lived and died emotionally with this team for sixty or seventy years still come here, remembering the dream of 2016.
I again make this pilgrimage with my grade school buddy William. We’ve been coming to these games since seventh grade.
When we were boys, during summer vacations, our mothers would hand us a couple of bucks and set us free. We’d hop onto the Clark street bus for fifty cents, get a transfer, and go to a game. We didn’t have a ticket to the game, but that didn’t matter. There was a gate on the back side of the outfield that the groundskeepers used to get the lawnmowers onto the outfield.
We’d squeeze our skinny bodies through that locked gate to gain access. Once inside the ballpark, we’d get a hot dog and a pop for a buck fifty. It’s still hard to believe that we could enjoy a perfect day at Wrigley for two bucks. A person can’t even get a parking spot down here for less than half a Franklin nowadays.
We’d get to Wrigley early enough for no one to bother caring about a couple of extra kids running around the stands. Back then the games didn’t sell out. Who’d care if a couple of extra twelve-year-olds didn’t have a ticket? We’d get in early enough to watch batting practice.
Most people don’t know that if a person actually wants to catch a ball, batting practice is his best shot. There are few people in the stadium and the hitters are dinging balls all over the place. Running after those balls with few people in the stands was one of the highlights of our lives.
We’d get at least a couple of balls and they were white, almost brand new. To any ball player, this was an amazing thing. They were like the ones in the stores we couldn’t afford. We’d select the cleanest of them and stand just behind the Cub’s dugout, with an outstretched ball in hand. The whole team would trip over themselves, coming to autograph that ball.
They were all great guys, absolutely accommodating, our heroes in the flesh treating us like we were their own sons. They’d ask us how we were, if we wanted to be a ball player when we grew up, and what position we played. It was heaven, pure unadulterated nirvana.
Imagine what a thrill it was to actually meet and talk to those guys, the stars of our universe, but that was then. Try having a conversation with a ball player now and watch the rent-a-cops push you away. Try getting into the stadium now without a ticket. Now the players act like they’re doing you a favor when they sign a ball or a hat. Things change.
We make our way to our seats which are eight rows behind the Cubs dugout. It’s all there, the way that it’s always been. The bleachers sparkle in the midday sun with the green of the batter’s eye leading down to the ivy. I look up to see the Torca sign. Only God know what that stuff is, but they’ve always advertised it here.
The beer vendors are in full swing, chanting their solitary song. “Beer man. Get your beer here. Get your beer here.” The organ plays in the background as the announcer broadcasts the starting lineup. The rooftops just past the outfield walls are filling up and the infielders are shagging gounders.
It’s a special day at Wrigley because we’re playing our division rivals from St. Louis, and all of our favorite Cubbies are playing. As the organ beats out a bad rendition of Queen, I get a hot dog and a beer. Bogart once said that, “A hot dog at the ballpark is better than steak at the Ritz.” Brother he was right, especially at Wrigley. He was right any day of the week and twice that on a Sunday.
When I got up this morning and saw eight inches of snow, I thought that we could all use a little reminder that spring is coming. In a few short months, we’ll all be bitching about the heat.
Don’t get depressed. Keep looking up. We’re all going to get through this. Let’s get through it together.
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