“The Chicago Cubs have won the World Series!”
Ahead of Game 5 of the World Series, my brother-in-law and I decided we were going to watch at my house. I couldn’t bear the prospect of watching the Cleveland Indians win it all at Wrigley Field surrounded by people at a bar.
If this was the end, I wanted to meet it on my own terms, in my own house.
But that wasn’t to be. Chicago won at Wrigley, sending the series back to Cleveland. Being Cubs fans (and superstitious ones at that), we opted for not only the same viewing location for Game 6, but the same seating arrangement.
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It worked. Or, maybe the credit belongs to Jake Arrieta, who stepped up in a big way to lead the Cubs to that win.
Then, Game 7. For years, I’d always loved when series ran the course of seven games; it meant the season was that much longer. With my team in said situation, nervous doesn’t even begin to describe my feelings.
I let my hope build. I was certain they would pull it off. Then, Rajai Davis happened.
I’ve never felt so deflated and defeated in my life. I couldn’t talk. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just watched. And held my breath, waiting for the end. Then, the rain began.
The rest is history.
Ben Zobrist comes through with the go-ahead RBI and Chapman induces the game-ending ground ball to give the Chicago Cubs their first World Series title since 1908. There will likely never be another moment in my life that feels like that night; and for that, I am eternally grateful.