1987: I meet Elwood and immediately develop a monster crush on him. I try to squelch it, because he is clearly too cool for me. Except...he loves the Cubs. I thought he was too smart to spend time watching baseball. "Next year," he announces when the regular season is over. "Next year is their year for sure."
1988: Elwood and I start dating. He takes me to Wrigley Field, where bleachers tickets cost something like $6. I bring a book and read instead of watching the game. "Next year," he says when the regular season is over. "Next year is their year for sure."
1991: My college roommates and I rent a crappy apartment at Buckingham and Clark, six-tenths of a mile from Wrigley Field. We observe that Cubs fans are NUTS. Games bring them thronging into the neighborhood, in optimistic and increasingly drunken droves. "Next year," Elwood tells my roommates and me when the regular season is over. "Next year is their year for sure."
1993: Elwood and I, newly married, are leading a Bible study together. The coordinator asks all of the leaders to show the group an object they carry that exemplifies something about them. Elwood pulls the Cubs schedule out of his wallet. "They didn't do so well this year, the bums. Next year," he tells the Bible study leaders. "Next year is their year for sure."
1990-something: Elwood takes me back to Wrigley Field. I have brought a book, as is my habit for baseball dates, but he buys me a scorecard and a pencil. "I don't know hooooow to keep score," I complain. "I'll show you," he says. I learn to record a backward K for "struck him out looking." I learn why people cheer when the radio announcers say "6-4-3!" I cannot say this turns me into a big fan, but it turns me into a person who finds baseball significantly less painful. My mild enthusiasm does not help the Cubs' record. "Next year," Elwood announces when the regular season is over. "Next year is their year for sure."
1996: I am pregnant with Alex and I am cross-stitching a Christmas present for my mother. Mysteriously I find myself watching the World Series with Elwood while I cross-stitch. I have never watched a World Series game before. Sometimes I even flip on the games when Elwood isn't at home. It's fun to watch the Yankees, but Elwood, of course, is thinking about the Cubs. "Next year," he tells me. "Next year is their year for sure."
1997: We take Alex to his first game at Wrigley Field, dressed in garage sale Cubs pinstripes. It's a party for Elwood's high school friend, who is turning 30. The Cubs lose badly in freakishly cold weather; Elwood stays until the bitter end. "Next year," Elwood tells Alex and me when the regular season is over. "Next year is their year for sure."
1998: Kerry Wood throws 20 strikeouts for the Cubs. "This could be their year!" says Elwood in May. "Next year," he says with confidence when the regular season is over. "Next year is their year for sure."
1999: It is not their year. Elwood is undeterred. "Next year," he says. "Next year is their year for sure."
2003: This is a bad year for us. We move back to Chicago after Elwood loses his job in New Jersey. In October we are living with his parents while he job-hunts and I try to persuade the state licensing department to reactivate my license. The Cubs are in the post-season -- it's a little bright spot, until everything unravels as we watch in his parents' living room. "Next year," Elwood tells his family. "Next year is their year for sure."
2005: We move to Gladlyville, a few hours away from Chicago. In this corner of the Midwest people root for lots of different baseball teams: Twins and Brewers and Tigers and Reds and Cardinals and White Sox. Elwood's heart belongs to the Cubs forever. "Next year," he tells our new neighbors. "Next year is their year for sure."
2007: Elwood's friend turns 40 and we go back to Wrigley for another birthday party. We talk about all of the water under the bridge, all the ways that things have changed. Some things stay the same, though: the Cubs' season ends in September. "Next year," Elwood announces when the regular season is over. "Next year is their year for sure."
2011: Our middle kid has decided he is a Cardinals fan. Elwood loves him anyway, even though Joe gets a bit gloaty when the Cards win the World Series. "Next year," Elwood assures him when the regular season is over. "Next year is their year for sure."
2015: Elwood is on fire with excitement about the Cubs' pitching. "Next year," he says with conviction when the regular season is over. "Next year is their year for sure."
2016: We have tickets, purchased in August, for an event 45 minutes from home. Elwood is grumbling about missing game 6 of the series. "Who would have thought in August that the Cubs would be playing baseball on the first of November?" I asked him. "I thought that," he reminds me. "I told you this was going to be their year."
I am deeply skeptical about their ability to come back from a 3-1 deficit. These are the Cubs, after all. I am listening to game 7 with my heart in my mouth. Elwood has gone out to watch the game at a neighborhood bar, because sometimes the radio just won't do. I listen to the heartbreaking eighth inning and the top of the ninth. I go to bed discouraged, thinking, "I can't stay up for extra innings, and I can read about it in the morning if they lose." Elwood comes home during the rain delay, and I hear him talking to our 17yo, who slipped back downstairs for a drink of water and was pulled in by the game. I get out of bed. The three of us crowd together into our narrow little kitchen, huddled around the radio.
We high-five over the two runs in the top of the ninth tenth. We listen wide-eyed as the Indians score with two outs in the bottom of the ninth tenth. And then, as we stand with bated breath and hopeful hearts -- then comes the final out. We jump up and down. We cheer -- "CUBS WIN!" -- and hug each other. "This year," my husband can finally say. "This year was their year for sure."
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