When I was a kid, I had a recurring nightmare. I would imagine stepping into the batter’s box for my first major league at-bat, my name announced over the loudspeaker, followed by a roar from the crowd. The dream was spoiled, though, when I looked down at my jersey and saw “Cubs” printed in bright red letters.

You see, I grew up in a White Sox family. My dad is a White Sox die-hard, as was his father. In our house, the Cubs were as much mortal enemy as baseball team. My father wouldn’t shop at a nearby grocery store, Cub Foods, just because of the name (the store had nothing to do with the team). He wouldn’t get The Chicago Tribune because its parent company owned the Cubs. The thought of wearing a Cubs uniform was enough to bring me to tears.

Alas, my baseball career fizzled in my teenage years, so I was spared from my nightmare. But this fall, White Sox fans face a far more terrifying reality: The Cubs, who have baseball’s best record, are favorites to claim their first World Series title in more than a century. Most of Chicago is buzzing with expectation — Stephen Colbert was at Wrigley Field dressed as a hot dog vendor recently — leaving us to be the skunks at the garden party.