My time in the North was limited, but it’s always been a place I belong.

Old but vivid memories of my six year old self; squished between my father, sister and another random viewer who was busy stuffing a chili dog in his mouth, mark my first revelation to what it’s like to be a Cubs fan.

Years later the memories have been simplified. Once more, shattered dreams, along with your father silently standing up and returning to the garage to build something lopsided out of sheer frustration.

I don’t watch sports, let alone have the time to embark on a journey to a nearby stadium with crowded benches and tearful fans, but something about the Cubs draws me in every time.

It goes like this – I don’t have a Cubs shirt, or any Cub merchandise in general besides an ice cream bowl in the shape of a hat (which I’m 90 percent sure doesn’t count even if it does fit on my head). But my dad puts on his old orange hat that is practically held together by a string and takes his place in his usual chair by the entertainment center.

My sister assumes her position on the loveseat with a phone in one hand and a cup of wine in the other while my brother-in-law makes his way home with the game broadcasting from the radio.

This was the day that we learned the Cubs would play in the World Series, I emerged from my room to get some more lemonade, my dad kept going on about the “Great Chicago fire” and how the Cubs pretty much hadn’t had a chance since World War II.

How much of that is true I didn’t know but I felt pride swell up in my chest. I thought that I’d be able to go to school and boast about the Cubs – my team – winning.

It goes without saying that there had to be something at work here other than the teams at play.

Our brother, Kevin, who dooms every game he watches.

We all came to the conclusion quickly that Kevin – another avid Cubs fan – didn’t watch the game for the first time in 20 years or so. Our suspicions were confirmed when he reported the next day that he had a busy day driving back and forth from his house for work, along with other errands that ended with him recording the game and watching it later that night.

But the disappointment hit home again when we all buckled down to listen to the game.

We were cut short, and our anxiety ran high when Christopher (my brother-in-law) had to work on his car. There being an unspoken rule that if we all can’t watch something on the TV the TV isn’t used at all; we paced avidly around the house before the game started, and even after, as they struck out, time after time again.

I’d sit down, stand up, and go find something else to do. Repeat.

My sister multitasked, dirty dishes in one hand and her phone in the other.

Christopher played the broadcast on his phone while my father hunched over the front of the car swiped the news report alerts, repeating them out loud as they disappeared.

This only resulted in throwing our hands up in the air and reverting back to a typical northern style of speech. (One sentence is equal to one word in this instance.)

In the end, my sister whipped her arms wildly in the driveway while – phone in one hand once again – telling my brother to cease his attention to the game. Which if you tuned in on the 25^th you knew he didn’t listen and watched anyway.

Light shined on the 26^th, they won.  Kevin didn’t watch the game, and my father smoked a celebratory stogie (cigar) as if a child had been born into the family. And again, two nights later.

So tonight, it’s Game 7. The elusive World Series title comes down to a single game.

So what’s it like being a cubs fan?

Stressful, but oddly, rewarding.