Sweat is trickling down Paul McMann's cheeks, beading on his chin, dripping on his shirt. Tracy Robinson's office is air-conditioned. But oh, man, today is one of those nasty midsummer days in Chicago. The sidewalk was a griddle, the hallway an oven, and McMann, poor guy, he's wearing a dark wool suit and carting two heavy satchels stuffed with paper (press clippings, bound copies of the business plan) and props (hats, jerseys, mouse pads).