The Night the Cubs Won

My grandfather has been a Chicago Cubs fan for eighty-six years. He was born in 1930. The Cubs hadn't won the World Series since 1908. He used to say, "Maybe next year," every October of my life.

This year, they made it to Game 7. The whole family crammed into his small living room in front of the television. Three generations in Cubs jerseys and caps, some so old they were nearly see-through. My uncle brought a cake shaped like a baseball.

The game was unbearable. It went into extra innings. Then there was a rain delay. Grandpa sat in his recliner gripping the armrests, perfectly silent.

When the final out landed in the first baseman's glove, the whole room exploded. We were jumping, screaming, hugging. My little cousin was crying without knowing why. But Grandpa didn't jump. He just sat there with tears running down his face, smiling, looking at the screen.

Then he turned to me and said, very quietly, "I told you. Next year." He's going to need a new hat. The one he's wearing says "Champions."