I grew up in Ohio. I inherited the Indians. But I chose the Chicago Cubs, whose colorfully incompetent exploits fascinated me on visits to friends and family members who had cable TV, and WGN.
Then in 1984 they were in the playoffs. On regular TV—in my house. I ran the mile home from high school so as not to miss an inning.
When the Cubs got off to a glorious start that glorious afternoon in Chicago, I think it was the happiest moment I ever had as a sports fan. (And when they collapsed five games later in San Diego, the unhappiest.)
I protect my heart now. I will never let myself feel again the way I felt as a sophomore in high school (and in everything else), when Sutcliff hit that home run onto Sheffield Avenue.
Not unless ...—and maybe not even then.