Day 1

I went to Chicago for games 3, 4, and 5 of the World Series. With my betrothed, I flew out of Charlotte at 5:55 am on a Friday and landed in Chicago around 6:30am. Chicago runs on central time. Charlotte runs on eastern time. I grew up in Illinois, so a central time zone is what I am used to and it’s what I like.

Entering the airport, I noticed people everywhere sporting their best Chicago Cubs gear. Fitted game hats, jackets, because Chicago is cold in November. I even saw a little cocker spaniel sitting coach and sporting a Cubs shirt and a Cubs collar. Maybe the little spaniel has been waiting 70 dog years for a World Series appearance by his beloved Cubs. I think he doesn’t know any different, and his owners are hoping he doesn’t shit on the plane. I don’t know if dogs like planes. I bet they don’t.

We arrived at our Airbnb around 7:00am. Our check in time wasn’t until later that day at 1:00pm. But the owner of the house at 737 Melrose was still home getting ready for work, and she let us stow our goods at her house early.

After leaving our bags, we took a walk to Melrose Diner. The sign out front said “Pancake Specialties.” So I knew I wanted to go nowhere else but there because I like pancakes a lot. I can eat a stack covered in butter and the best Aunt Jemima has to offer, and just be fat and happy and slowly fall asleep and waste the day away. For me, it takes an entire day to recover from a full pancake dinner. I am not like a normal person who may enjoy 2 or 3 pancakes. I prefer 8 or 10 and sometimes more. That’s a problem for most, but my doctor says I have a fast metabolism, so I am good to eat a serving fixed for 5 people.

After this, we walked the neighborhood. We walked around Wrigley Field and looked at the scoreboard, the big lighted screens with “Budweiser” atop each one, and read the Nuveen sign in reverse from Waveland Avenue. We took a right on Clark and I showed Courtney the bright red marquee that reads “Wrigley Field Home of Chicago Cubs.” She had never been to Chicago before and she wanted to see Wrigley Field.

She is from Long Island and grew up a Yankees fan. Since she is not white trash, she is not a Mets fan. That would have been a problem. A real character issue would have been revealed if her favorite player had been Mike Piazza. That would have put our relationship on the rocks. Instead, she was a Roger Clemens fan. He took the good steroids and actually threw a baseball bat at Mike Piazza once.

Let me repeat that – during a game, Roger Clemens picked up a baseball bat and threw it right at Mike Piazza. Roger has the same disdain for the Mets that Courtney does, and the same that I do for the St. Louis Cardinals.

After I showed her the field and the bars around the field, and the streets around the field that players hit home runs onto sometimes, we walked over to the sports shop and bought a couple Cubs hats that had the World Series 2016 logo stitched on the side. I bought the fitted one, the same one that Jake Arrieta wears when he throws his 97 mph fastball. She picked the adjustable one so she could put her ponytail through the back.

After we checked into our room and relaxed for a few hours, we took off for Wrigleyville to look for a place to watch the game. We didn’t have tickets. The price was upwards of a used Honda Civic. Upper deck seats were $4000. You could opt for the rooftop seats and sit on top of the apartments across the street on Sheffield avenue. Those tickets were $1200.

You see, I have been a Cubs fan long before Kris Bryant and Anthony Rizzo were hitting back to back home runs. Before Willson Contreras was even born. My dad is a Cubs fan, and so was my grandpa.

I haven’t been watching Cubs baseball for as long as some others have. I didn’t see the NLCS loss in 1984, and I really don’t remember that loss in 1989 either. But walking down Melrose, cutting through Aldine to get to Clark, and staring at Wrigley while walking down Sheffield, I could feel something. I guess it must have been 108 years of baseball. 108 years of family and loyalty and heartbreak. 108 years of love and fun. All of that nostalgia was piled up in front of me while walking down Sheffield.

The houses on Melrose are brick, close together, and most of them are 3 stories high. Every house had a Cubs flag waiving in the wind along with their Halloween decorations to celebrate their team during this season. There’s some significance to this. The Cubs do not usually play in October. So to see neighbors rooting for the team while putting up Halloween decorations is a rare occurrence.

Then November came. The Cubs were still playing.

The first night, we watched game 3 from Sports Corner, which is on the corner of Sheffield and Addison. It took us an hour to get into the place. The wait was fulfilling. While standing outside Wrigley, waiting for a spot in a bar to enjoy the game with 300 other Cubs fans, I saw a kid, probably 16, walking with who I am sure was his grandma. He was holding her hand through the crowd of Cubs fans who had gathered around the side of the field that displays statues of Billy Williams and Ron Santo wearing their number 26 and 10 jerseys, respectively. I remember she looked so happy to be there. He looked so happy to be with her. Then I looked around and noticed everyone was happy. I just stared for the entire hour that I was in that cold, windy line to get into the bar. I couldn’t stop looking at everyone. I’ve never felt anything like that. The feeling was electric. The atmosphere was something I would need to look in a thesaurus to find the words to try and explain it.

Maybe it was heaven. Yeah, I think it was heaven. I know it was heaven. All of the nostalgia every kid has felt with baseball was right there on Sheffield. For me, it was palpable. I could feel myself standing on the pitchers mound my dad built me in my backyard. I could feel the used catchers mitt my dad bought me from Play It Again Sports. The leather laces getting tangled as I put my hand into the glove. The oil. The oversized little league hats they gave us every spring, with the little rope that wrapped around the front of the cap, just above the bill.

I was walking in front of Wrigley, watching people sign the names of their loved ones on the brick wall that was supporting the greatest place on earth. But I wasn’t really walking. I was in my back yard, down in the southern part of Illinois, waiting for my dad to get off work. Then he pulled up in his 1987 Chevy S-10. He finished his cigarette, threw it on the ground and pushed it into the dirt to extinguish it. I handed him his glove and put mine on. Then I was playing catch with him. We threw for about 15 minutes, then he got down in a catcher’s stance and I launched baseballs as hard as I could from the mound he built me. I was emulating every one of my favorite pitchers. The soft delivery of Greg Maddux. The high leg kick of Nolan Ryan.

The people I watched sign the names of loved ones on the brick with chalk, I don’t know if they were really there. I don’t think they were. The chalk and the names where there, but the people embroidering the brick with dad, mom, grandpa, and grandma were somewhere else. With dad and mom and grandpa and grandma.

We watched game 3 of the World Series, an Old Style in hand, celebrating each play with people we didn’t know. Each time Kyle Hendricks retired an Indian, we hugged and high fived and cheered with other fans. When the Indians got a hit, we encouraged Kyle to keep pitching his good stuff.

I’d yell, “c’mon Kyle, you got ‘em.”

In between innings, me and Courtney and our new friends that flew in from Oklahoma would walk toward the back of the bar, regroup, and get ready for the next inning. Anthony and Addison, Kris and Javy, they were getting their mitts and batting gloves and drinks of Gatorade. In the bar, we were pacing with excitement, getting chicken tenders and replacing our empty Old Styles with full cans. We would lean over the bar, tired and exhausted, as if we had been playing and needed the break.

We left the bar in the 7^th inning. We wanted to be outside when the game ended, with the crowd that had gathered around Alex Rodriguez, Frank Thomas, and Pete Rose, celebrating the win.

The Cubs lost game three 1-0.

We walked back home. The walk back was with other Cub fans. We walked down Sheffield, up Clark, cut through Belmont to Halstead, and arrived on Melrose shortly after.

The Cubs lost. But I was happy. I was in Chicago, watching the Cubs play in the World Series. I was with Courtney. She enjoyed it, too. She loved Chicago. She had never been before. She also loves the Cubs.

I would normally be upset at the loss. But I was still happy and I felt good about the World Series. I guess it was because I was in Chicago, with Courtney, with a million other Cub fans. The city felt good. A loss wouldn’t interrupt that feeling. Nothing would. It felt too good. To be there was the best ever. It’s the best place I’ve ever been.

Day 2

We started the day at Melrose Diner again. Melrose looks like a vintage diner. The booth we ate at had dark green vinyl seats that were lined with brass rivets and pressed with green buttons, which gave the seats big bubbles. Six light green barstools that looked like they had been ordered straight from 1960 lined the bar. Looking into the bar revealed the kitchen, a stainless steel coffee maker with ceramic coffee mugs under it, and a Coca-Cola fountain machine next to that.

I ordered pancakes and a bacon sausage scramble. Courtney ordered a veggie scramble and a coffee. I had hot chocolate. We were both wearing our World Series Cubs hats, so the guy running the place knew we were there to talk baseball. He asked us about the crowds last night, the expensive covers that each bar charged, and how we thought tonight’s game 4 would go.

I wish I knew his name. He was one of those guys that you could grab a case of Old Style with and watch a Cubs game and talk about all kinds of stuff. Illinois politics, baseball records, like who was the best hitter that ever lived, carburetors on Chevy C-10s, the good ole days and how hipster kids looked so damn dumb with their hair and beards and scarves drinking fancy coffee and craft beer.

They look like a bunch of sissies. Even with their beards. I don’t know whether to kiss ‘em or shake their hands.

He seemed like a no bullshit guy.

Me and Courtney had decided to spend part of the day on the Chicago River, cruise out to Lake Michigan, and enjoy the day. We also needed to rest our feet. We had spent about 12 hours the day before walking around Chicago. I wore Chuck Taylor’s, so that was a bad call on my end. I may as well have been walking barefoot. They have no sole, just like my loving fiancé has no soul when she makes it a point to tell me how old I am and how much younger she is than me. I told her my knees hurt from walking so much, and she promised to pull the plug promptly when I needed it. Also, that she would unplug my life support to charge her iPhone.

She is lovely. She will probably kill me.

To relax and reduce our step count, similar to the pitch count of our favorite pitchers, we took one of those Chicago tours that was to take us around the city on the water. Show you the buildings and everything like that. They also told the story of Chicago. About the Great Chicago Fire, and how a lady that had a cow was to blame.

Kasey, the tour guide, said that Mrs. O’Leary’s cow knocked over a lantern and started the fire. This was later proven false. But Mrs. O’Leary had been dead for about 100 years when the city recognized it wasn’t the fault of her farm animal.

Our bad, Mrs. O’Leary.

There were also some water problems in the city. The inhabitants of Chicago had polluted the Chicago River pretty bad. So bad that a chicken was once seen walking across it. Not a Jesus chicken, just a normal chicken. And when the fire consumed the city, the water was so polluted that it too caught fire. That’s a problem, I think.

Not to worry, Chicago just re-routed some water and sent the pollution straight down the Mississippi and directly into St. Louis, Missouri. St. Louis tried to sue the city of Chicago. They didn’t appreciate the 1,500 tons of defecated sewage and filth and probably typhoid that was headed their way.

Chicago won the lawsuit. You see, the waste that Chicago sent down the Mississippi was mixed with water from Lake Michigan. When scientists examined the added water and waste that St. Louis was pissed about, they found that the water was actually cleaner than what Missouri had to begin with.

Basically, here is our water with shit added. It’s better than what you have.

You’re welcome!

The tour was about an hour and a half. We were able to see all of the skyscrapers that made the city what it is today and the history behind each. As we passed the Trump tower, Kasey didn’t acknowledge it. Neither did anyone on the boat. Trump is synonymous with stupid in more intelligent, educated, areas. So people didn’t want to talk about it. They didn’t want to seem dumb to their ship mates.

There were W flags on the front of each boat we saw on the river, on bridges, on the outside of every big building and inside many of the windows. You could tell this city was ready for the biggest event in sports history.

Seeing this city behind their team gave me goosebumps. It was overwhelming and exciting and nostalgic and emotional for every second I was in this great city. I didn’t want it to end and I didn’t want to go back to North Carolina.

When the boat tour ended, we arrived back at the Wrigley Building on Michigan Avenue, where we met to board our ship an hour and half before. We now had our sites set on pizza of the deep dish variety. That’s been my biggest disappointment since moving from Illinois. Pizza is shit outside of Illinois. The best pizza I’ve had since leaving Illinois is Totino’s Pizza. Yes, the 99 cent ones with 10 grams of trans fat and the little fat pepperonis on them. That is literally better than any of the pizza I’ve had in Nashville and Charlotte. Their pizza is a joke. It’s shit. Just shit.

We decided on Lou Malnati’s, which is the best pizza in the entire world. They have dozens of locations in Chicago. The one we went to was on North Wells, about a half mile from the river. This place oozed of Chicago sports history. We sat under a Steve Carlton White Sox jersey (he only started 10 games for the Sox at the tail end of his career) which was next Jerry Sloan’s retired number 4 Chicago Bulls jersey. To my right was Ron Santo’s number 10.

We ordered a medium pizza that gave us 6 slices. I ate 3 slices and Courtney had 1. Then I ate the other two later that night for my midnight snack. I wish we had ordered an extra large. I don’t mind if I get fat, as long as it’s from Lou Malnati’s deep dish pizza. I would imagine Courtney would be fine with it, too. In the mid evil days, you could judge a man’s wealth by the size of his waist. So if I get fat, Courtney will know I can afford plenty of pizza for the both of us.

You’re welcome. You got this forever.

If I am being honest, I will secretly eat all of the pizza and not save any for her.

Sorry, Courtney. I’m willing to sacrifice a lot for our relationship. But I don’t like to share food. Quite frankly, it pisses me off it someone wants “a little bite.” Basically ruins my entire day.

After I ate most of the pizza, we walked back to the bus stop and ventured back to our dwelling on Melrose. I asked Cathy and Jeff, the owners of the place we were staying at, if I could store my two slices of pepperoni pizza in their fridge. They obliged, and my midnight snack was safe and sound in their Frigidaire.

We prepared to watch the game. I put on my Torco t-shirt and my fitted Cubs World Series cap. She went with her Cubs hoodie. We walked to L&L Tavern down on Clark Street. I knew this would be a good bar, since they only accepted cash payments for their beer.

The outside of L&L Tavern is inviting to those that pass by. There is a brightly lighted Old Style Beer sign in the window. Next to that is a lighted Pabst sign. In the window next to that is a handwritten sign that reads, “Creepiest bar in the USA – Google.” I don’t know if that is a real Google review. I trust that it is. This place seems trustworthy.

Inside the bar, it is dark and has a green, tin ceiling. There’s a jukebox in the place, and above that is a plastic nativity scene, featuring the usual people. Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. So you have context, it is one of those old, plastic sets that you would see in the 80’s. The thing looks really old. Upon further examination, Mary and Joseph both have a PBR tall boy in their hands. I think that’s a Catholic thing. The drinking.

When I was a kid, my mom always used to say that “Those Catholics drink a lot. And they baptize babies, too.” Jesus didn’t have a beer, thank God. Or, thank himself, I guess. Fuck, I don’t know.

One other thing. Baby Jesus had a paper plate behind his head. I’m guessing Mary and Joseph had just finished an order of mozzarella sticks.

I went to order our first round of beers. As I waited at the bar, I watched the pregame on their 19-inch tube TVs, of which they had two. Only two. I really liked this.

It reminded me of when I was a kid. I would walk to my grandpa’s house and watch the Cubs on WGN.

“Hello again, everybody. Harry Caray with Steve Stone and Thom Brennaman. The lineups for today’s game…”

I can hear it now. We would watch on a 13-inch TV that was in his game room. On either side of the TV was a signed Cubs baseball and two baseball cards. Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg. The Cubs Hall of Fame 1^st and 2^nd basemen. They stood up in plastic display cases, watching the game with us from our own personal dugout on Aikman Street.

My grandpa would already have a beer in hand. Probably an Old Style or a Budweiser. Those were the approved beers that Cubs fans could drink.

“I’m a Cubs fan and a Bud man,” Harry would say. Or he’d say “Well, that pitch will load the bases. That’s what I’m gonna do after this game. Get loaded.”

Harry was a drinker. So was my grandpa. So was I, except, I only got to drink Barq’s root beer. So I’d go to the fridge and grab a Bud and a Barq’s, and we’d watch the game on that 13-inch Emerson.

This bar reminded me of watching WGN and Steve Stone and Harry Carey and Rey Sanchez and Steve Buechele and Rick Wilkins and Derrick May. A bunch of old Cubs. Back when the Torco sign stood high over right field and 13-inch TVs were the norm.

L&L Tavern has the best beer in town. Old Style and Hamm’s and Pabst Blue Ribbon. As long as you go to the bar with cash, you can have any beer you want. As long as it is an Old Style or Hamm’s or Pabst Blue Ribbon.

The Cubs lost that night. 7-2 was the final score. They now faced a 3-1 deficit in the best of 7 series. If they were to become World Series Champions, they were going to have to do something that hadn’t been accomplished since 1979, when the Pirates came back from a 3-1 deficit to beat the Orioles, winning the last two games on the road.

When we walked in Melrose, we saw Jeff watching what was left of the game. The Indians 2^nd baseman had just hit a 3 run home run.

We went to sleep shortly after the game ended. The bed was a queen. It was smaller than what we slept in back home. But it was just us. Brody, our 56-pound black lab, didn’t make the trip. So we didn’t have him there. He lays sideways in the bed. Always has, so that makes it hard to get comfortable. He sleeps great, apparently. He has dog dreams and kicks his feet and makes all kinds of noises as he chases birds at 2am.

Day 3

Day 3 started at Melrose Diner, as it always did. We sat in a booth in the back this time, on the opposite side of the bar. The chairs were the same, so that was good. We talked baseball with the proprietor again. Drank coffee and ate eggs and pancakes and paid our bill.

The plan tonight was to watch the game from outside Wrigley Field. We decided not to watch from inside a bar. We wanted to be there, in Wrigleyville, watching from our phones and through the windows of bars. So we could hear the crowd inside the Friendly Confines cheer with every hit and every strikeout and belt out the 7^th inning stretch with every ounce of Harry Carey like joy and happiness and hope that a game six would happen. That a game seven would happen. That 108 years would turn back to zero and all the names written on the wall beyond the bleachers would experience a Cubs World Series win from wherever they were. Wherever they watched from.

So, that’s what we did. We walked down Sheffield, stared beyond the sidewalk crowds into the homes of fans, looking at the score on their TV. Some had TVs facing out toward the sidewalk.

We high fived people as we made our way to Waveland. Stopped at the corner to look up at Harry, the Chicago Cubs sign above, and over to Murphy’s, wondering if this was the end, or if there was a bit of magic left. Something the Cubs had never experienced. Always being on the losing end of these things, hope was hidden under some curse. It may have been the one with that goat, or with that black cat, or with that one left fielder who almost caught a ball, but a group of five held their hands out and one unlucky fan got his hands on it just enough to piss off every Cubs fan on the planet.

Makes you laugh. That last part. We all want the foul ball. And one of those curses was a fan that got his hands on a foul ball during a major league baseball game. Never to be seen, only heard through a statement delivered by his lawyer. That’s lucky, but not.

We walked to a Thai place just off Clark. Watched the 4^th inning while eating Kao Mun Kai and Duck Noodle Soup. Cubs scored 3 runs that inning. Kris Bryant’s home run to left, Addison Russell’s single to third to drive in Anthony Rizzo, and David Ross’s sacrifice fly to deep left to score Ben Zobrist from 3rd.

After a quick pit stop back at Melrose to warm up our numbing hands and ears and faces, we bundled up for the last 3 innings outside Wrigley. I wore my Cubs jersey and Courtney her vintage Cubs crew neck and a jacket with a hood on it. The Thai food sent her into some sort of sickness, but she wasn’t missing the end of the game. She powered through the streets and we made it just in time.

Aroldis Chapman pitched the last two and two-thirds innings, striking out 4 and allowing zero runs on one hit. That was the longest save of his career and the Cubs held on 3-2.

They won. They held on to play another day. It wasn’t over, like it had always been seasons before. Eddie Vedder sang the stretch that night in tribute to David Ross.

Save the final tribute for later. We won’t be needing it for a few days.

Game 7

Up to this point, the Cubs had played 178 games. This game, game seven, was game 179. Dexter Fowler led off the game with a solo home run.

“You go, we go,” is what the Cubs say to Dexter. When he plays well, the team follows him and plays well. And tonight, they did.

The Cubs were cruising. Dexter delivering in the first, Addison, Willson, Kris, Ben delivering two more in the fourth. Javy sending a baseball over the right field fence in the 5^th, and Anthony adding a fifth run in the top of the 5^th inning. David Ross hit a solo home run in the 6^th inning, in what would be the last game of his career.

But Cleveland, between the 5^th and the 8^th inning, scored 5 runs, and by the end of the 9^th inning, the game was tied at 6 runs each. Game 179 wasn’t enough. We needed on more inning.

Aroldis

In the bottom of the 8th inning, with a runner on second and a run already in, Rajai Davis came to the plate. An unlikely hero, having hit only 55 home runs in his 11-year career. Clearly not know for his power. He choked up on the bat, halfway up it seemed. With a 2-2 count clearly in favor of the lefty who throws 105 mph at times, Davis hoped for contact. Even though it was not likely.

Davis looked focused and fastened on the face of Aroldis Chapman. He walked up, tapped the bat on the left side of home plate, swung it around slowly as he looked at Aroldis. Swung it in the pattern of a Ferris Wheel. Over his head and by his feet as if the bat were on an axle attached to his belt. Aroldis was tired. Fatigued. Worn. Everyone knew it. You could see it in his face. He was still throwing as hard as he could. He threw until he could no longer throw 103. 104. He was dipping down to 100. Then 99. 98. 97 soon followed. That’s when Rajai could finally see the ball. That’s when Aroldis threw all that he could. Gave all he had.

Davis sent a fastball in line drive fashion over the right field wall, tying the game at 6 runs apiece. He hit it off the guy who throws a baseball faster than any human that has ever lived.

“Then the 8^th inning happened,” says the Cubs fan. These words have been muttered by every Cubs fan on the planet once before. So let’s say them again. We have this routine memorized. We know it by heart. Yeah, the one that gets stabbed and then heals and then stabbed again.

I cried. I laid face down on the floor. All I wanted them to do was win. I kept saying “I want them to win so bad.”

Aroldis cried, too. Or so they say. In the weight room, during Jason Heyward’s speech to the team. That was the first home run he had given up in a Cubs uniform.

But then, something happened. Aroldis came back out in the bottom of the 9^th. His fastball wasn’t there. His fastball had left him. His arm was tired. He had thrown more pitches in the last three games than he ever had in any three games in a row. He had already given everything he had. Literally. He threw until he couldn’t throw any more baseballs. But he still came out in the bottom of the 9^th inning.

“And Chapman is going back out there.” Joe Buck said. Shocked. “I can’t imagine how much he has left,” Joe added as Chapman took the mound. He was facing the top of the Cleveland lineup.

He had something left.

His first pitch was 86 mph. Second 88 mph. Third 87. Fourth was 98 and way out of the strike zone. The count was 3-1. After throwing a strike down the middle at 98, he threw a slider at 86 mph and Santana flew out.

One out.

Jason Kipnis dug in. He grew up in Northbrook. He saw two sliders and took the third slider to deep right but hooked it foul. That pitch was 85 mph. He only threw one fastball to Kipnis. It was 98 mph. 7 mph lower than his fastest. Kipnis swung through it.

Two out.

Lindor saw and swung at one pitch. He flew out to shallow right field.

14 pitches were thrown. None over 100. Three out.

Aroldis threw mostly sliders. 86 and 87 and 88 mph. He retired three in a row.

The Cubs were going into the 10^th. They were still playing baseball. Nothing else mattered. They were still playing baseball.

Then it rained.

The ground crew unrolled the tarp and pulled it over the infield. Fox showed the weather radar. It looked bad. The yellow and green and red of the storm looked as big as the state of Ohio. It was enough to swallow the city of Cleveland.

I wish I could write some strange and wonderful meaning for the rain and the delay in play that it brought. A sign of sorts exonerating the Cubs and the misfortune they had experienced over the last 108 years.

This rain would somehow hurt the Cubs, right? As all things did.

Sometimes I think the universe brought the rain to slow down the moment, to think it’s decision over one last time before crowning the Cubs World Series champions.

Do we really want to do this?

Or maybe it slowed down the moment for us. Making sure the newborns named Clark and Addison and Mabel Ball at Covenant Village in Northbrook were listening. Making sure the radio was on and the TV could be seen to witness the last calls of Joe Buck and Pat Hughes. Just like a teacher tells you to pay attention to this part because it will be on the test, the universe stopped and told us to pay attention.

You’re gonna want to watch this.

Because you never know when this moment will happen again.

Actually, this moment will never happen again.

The rain delay lasted 17 minutes, the Cubs scored 2 runs in the 10^th, and 108 turned to 0. When the game was over, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know what to do. I had cheered all season. I had cried two innings ago. I had played this moment in my head a million times. I figured my celebration would be similar to Michael Jordan’s after he won his 4^th title on Father’s Day. That I’d lay on the floor sobbing, holding a baseball, thinking about all my years playing baseball, all my years watching baseball, 33 years of nostalgia and joy all hitting me at once in this huge emotional celebration.

But I just stared. In the top right hand corner of the TV, it read 2016 World Series Champions Chicago Cubs, with the Cubs logo to the left.

I stared because when I did, I was at home. I was back in Marion, Illinois. I was putting on an orange hat with the letter M on it, for Marion, and a jersey that read Elks. That was the name of our team, since the Elks had sponsored us that year.

I grabbed my dark blue Easton bat bag, with the Easton Reflex inside, my Rawlings catchers mit, my glove, two Franklin batting gloves. I threw it over my shoulder and got in my dad’s 1987 single cab Chevy S-10. The ashtray overflowed and his thermos was in the center of the bench seat. The thermos that he filled with Folgers or Maxwell House when he left the house at 6am every day, just after we watched baseball highlights on Sportscenter.