CHICAGO, IL — Somewhere between a Wrigley beer snake and the Thunderbirds’ warm-up lap on Friday, a sky-wide WHUMP rolled down DuSable Lake Shore Drive, rattling lobby glass, dog nerves, and weekday schedules; officials insisted no one went supersonic, which is exactly the sort of thing sound would say after breaking and entering, while Lakeview residents compared deductibles, filed 311s, and wondered if the Air & Water Show now includes a complimentary window-replacement voucher.
The Boom Heard Round Wrigley
Chicago loves spectacle, but the city did not order one (1) shockwave with its day baseball. At some point during rehearsal hours for the Air & Water Show, a thunderous crack rolled across the North Side, startling fans and allegedly convincing at least one outfielder he was being promoted straight to the space league. Reports poured in from Lakeview high-rises where lobby windows cracked like crème brûlée shells, residents pointed to the skies as ABC7 and NBC Chicago documented glass casualties and bewildered door attendants quietly Googling “Is physics refundable?”
On the lakefront, air-show rehearsal continued, which is either an indictment of Chicago’s tolerance for noise or proof the city’s official motto is “It’s Probably Fine.” By evening, the neighborhood group chats had fractured into camps: Boom Truthers, Boom Skeptics, and Cubs Fans who just wanted whatever cursed energy that rattled Wrigley to also rattle opposing pitchers.
Official Story: Nothing to See Here
Within hours, the highly trained professionals in charge of making thunder with jets politely informed the public that they had made no thunder with jets. The line was crisp, disciplined, and unwavering: The Thunderbirds performed their rehearsal without going supersonic; please deposit your conspiracy-laden comment cards in the nearest recycling bin. Local outlets like CBS Chicago and the Sun-Times dutifully relayed the message while standing in front of buildings that now had a more “modern, open-air lobby” vibe than management had budgeted for.
Meanwhile, the physics remained rude. The Air Force’s own explainer on why sonic booms act like vengeful drum solos, helpfully archived on a government website like a museum plaque for “Loud”, reminds the public that when an aircraft exceeds Mach 1, pressure waves coalesce into a single, city-sized whomp (USAF factsheet). The official stance: not what happened here. The civic stance: okay, but then who paid our windows?
Alternative Theories: DoorDash Mach 2
Nature abhors a vacuum; Chicago abhors an official denial. In the absence of a culprit, the internet did what it does best: held a science fair with glitter glue and zero citations. One popular theory suggested a classified pilot program to reduce pizza delivery times east of Ashland to sub-two minutes; another posited a coordinated Kanye promo, because if a citywide bass drop doesn’t say “album out now,” what does? FOX 32’s coverage of shattered panes (FOX 32) only further energized the timeline: Evidence! Windows don’t lie. Windows, granted, also don’t speak, except in crunchy onomatopoeia.
For the record, the Thunderbirds fly F-16s, which are roughly as subtle as a drumline inside a cathedral and absolutely capable of a little atmospheric chaos even without breaking the sound barrier (Thunderbirds overview). But the crowd preferred the spicier plotlines: secret hypersonic DoorDash, a stealth UFO with Midwestern manners, or a rogue jet practicing its tight five at the Laugh Factory.
City Hall Demands a Permit from Physics
As calls to 311 accumulated like unpaid parking tickets, City Hall’s response machinery awakened from its afternoon coffee and began shaping the only narrative Chicago trusts: paperwork. If the skies intend to clap back, they must first fill out Form BOOM-213 and submit proper notice via the Department of Cultural Affairs and Special Events, which, amusingly enough, already posts every detail about the rehearsal schedules and the general “please look up” directive of the Air & Water Show. That sound? Just art, baby.
By the weekend, parachute teams descended, formation teams sparkled, and Chicago did the thing it loves most: pointed phones at the sky while pretending not to be impressed (Sun-Times on the show). There were murmurs of aldermanic inquiries, insurance adjusters in sensible shoes, and condo boards calling emergency sessions to discuss “wavefront mitigation strategies.” Translation: tape the windows and hope.
Marketing Stunt Gone Too Far
Another school of thought, popular among people who think the Super Bowl is really just four hours of ad previews, insisted the boom was a brand activation that achieved “full-city recall.” If you’ve ever watched a beverage company name a flavor like it’s a rogue comet, you can picture the pitch: “We partner with the Air & Water Show and debut our new product with an unforgettable sense memory: the violence of the air.” Never mind that the show is a longstanding civic event coordinated by DCASE with schedules, rules, and far fewer soda tie-ins than you’d imagine (City info | 2025 details).
Still, you can’t blame marketers for wanting to bottle the drama. “Taste the Boom” practically writes itself, right up until your campaign budget is repurposed to a neighborhood window-replacement fund. If any agency wants to confirm, please present receipts, flight logs, and a case of Baja Whatever to the Lakeview condo board that now sees the lake a little too clearly.
The Boom Is Over; Theories Keep Echoing
Eventually, the dust and memes settled. Windows were boarded, statements were issued, and the jet team went back to doing the lawful, loud choreography that thrills a million spectators every summer. Officials reiterated the planes never crossed the sound barrier; reporters filed notes; residents compared deductibles. The original facts remain where they started, on the ground, in the glass, and in the timelines of outlets like ABC7, while the debates keep humming along at Mach Rumor.
To be fair, there is a bona fide federal rulebook for all of this. The FAA has long banned civil supersonic flight over land without special authorization, which is why your business jet hasn’t shaved 90 minutes off your O’Hare commute by detonating a pressure wave over Naperville (FAA overview). But rules rarely quiet a good legend. Chicago will file the boom alongside its other folk tales, mobsters, giant green rivers, miracle seasons, until next August, when the jets return and the city leans out its windows to listen.
For more absurd aviation angles, head back to The Takeoff Nap.