“My brother and I, we were here for every game… We’d spend our summers here. And if we were lucky, the fall.” –Finding Forrester.

“Also, there was a little ten year old kid leaving ahead of me. Bawling his eyes out. That made me very upset. Indians fan. Parents didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do.”

I got that text from a friend after we walked out of Progressive Field on Wednesday night. A guy who had seats right behind the Cubs dugout who could have sold them for five figures each but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“I can’t sell the front row. Too many dreams of being there game seven winning…I just want to win. And hug my dad.”

More tears began to flow.

Somehow I hope the baseball gods allow this post to make its way to that little kid’s parents. If it does, tell him this:

I hope sports still make you cry in 20 years. Not many things in life can make you feel that way. Don’t ever stop caring kid. You will relive that day, that night, that heartache, with your parents for a lifetime, just like many of us do with ’97. But you cherish it, it will be one of the most vivid memories of your childhood. And one day we will walk out of that stadium together crying happy tears instead, and that’s what makes the sad tears worth it.

Sports are going to break your heart more often than not, but it’s the than not we cheer for. It’s the than not you play for. It’s the than not you dream about. It’s the than not they make movies about. Life is about the more often, sports teach you to embrace, to hope for, to love, the than not.

I had another friend who went to Game 6 with us. He and his dad went into the stadium early to take in batting practice before the game and try to catch a few baseballs. You know why? Because that’s what they used to do when he was a kid. It had been a long time since they experienced that together and so they wanted to stand next to each other this week and try it again. That’s what baseball is about.

One of my friends and his dad were able to go to Games 6 and 7 with us. His dad pulled my brother and I aside on separate occasions to say how much it meant to him that he was able to watch a World Series in Cleveland with his son. That’s what sports are about.

We went to the watch parties at the Jake when our Indians were in Chicago. A family friend decided he did not want to join for Game 5 because he could not imagine being anywhere other than at home with his dad if we won it all. Wherever his dad wanted to watch the game is where he was going to be. I knew exactly how he felt.

Baseball is different than other sports in a way because it’s something almost all of us play together with those close to us. How many of you had your dad teach you to throw a baseball? How many of you were lucky enough to have a mom who threw you baseball after baseball in the backyard as you learned to hit. And on each swing you did your own play by play, you pretended you were right where we were on Wednesday night, Game 7, bottom of the ninth, two outs, two strikes, one man on, your team down by 1. Baseball is a game for kids, but at the same time it’s a game for mom and dad too.

My brother, Mom, Dad, and I got downtown mid-afternoon prior to Games 6 and 7 to be a part of it all. Many of those friends I mentioned above joined us each day. We drank Christmas Ales to try to calm our nerves and talked about how special it was to be playing baseball in November. We changed our pregame restaurant choice on Wednesday because it obviously did not work Tuesday. We switched up the seating arrangements during Game 7 because obviously that had to be why were losing. When Rajai Davis tied the game my brother told me it was, and probably forever will be, the greatest sports experience of his life. And we got to share that moment together, just like we shared half a dozen nights at the stadium together this postseason. We were lucky, we spent the fall together, and that’s what this game is about.

And in numerous homes, bars, restaurants, and a stadium in Cleveland, hundreds of thousands of Cubs fans experienced those same special moments, only they were able to smile a little more than us. Somewhere in Peoria a grandson watched that game with the man who raised him. Somewhere in Northbrook a mom let her son stay up far past his bedtime and watch his heroes, glove in hand, in the shadow of his Kris Bryant poster on the wall. Somewhere in Chicago a there was a family in their living room glued to their TV. A girl in Cubbie blue celebrating on Clark Street got a text from her dad telling her to drink one for him at Merkle’s, just like they did all summer together. And that’s what the Fall Classic is about.

Straight up we got beat by a better baseball team. The injuries to Michael Brantley, Danny Salazar, and Carlos Carrasco finally caught up to the Indians. Salazar clearly was not as healthy as the team made it seem. The injuries to Cleveland’s hurlers stretched our starters just a little too thin in a seven game series. Andrew Miller, Cody Allen, and Corey Kluber returned to earth at the worst possible time.

On some level this one hurt less than ‘97 because we were the better team then. We entered the ninth with a lead and one of the best closers in the game on the bump. This time, even though we took a commanding series lead, it felt like we were fighting the entire time to stick around with a team who made up a quarter of the NL All-Star team.

Kyle Schwarber used this World Series as proof that last year’s playoff performance that looked more like a batting practice session was not a fluke. It wasn’t just him though, just about every ball the Cubs hit was smoked. Seemingly every foul ball got scorched down the line and missed by an inch. Almost every fly ball landed a foot short or over the wall. That lineup is the scariest thing I have seen in baseball in my lifetime next to hearing the opening chords to “Enter Sandman” and watching Mariano Rivera walking out of the bullpen with a Yankee lead.

Even when we improbably went up 3-1 I did not feel comfortable. The thought of facing Lester, Arrieta, and Hendricks on more rest than our guys was a terrifying premise. Thinking of Aroldis Chapman and his 101 MPH fastball walking onto the field with a lead gave me knots in my stomach.

Let the Indians blow the 3-1 lead jokes roll, I get it, Cleveland deserves that chirping. But anybody who watched that series will tell you that it was not about Cleveland losing it as compared to the Cubs winning it. Absolutely insane performances by their starters, a Ken Griffey Jr.’s Slugfest-esque showcase by the Cubs hitters, and just barely enough from their bullpen to get it done. You don’t win 103 games because you’re lucky. You win 103 because you are the best team in baseball.

We put our best pitchers against the Cubs best hitters and we got beat. Those last couple games the Cubs came to. Bryant, Zobrist, Rizzo woke up Tuesday morning and remembered they were Bryant, Zobrist, and Rizzo.

I was lucky enough to walk into the stadium for Game 7, at the Corner of Carnegie and Ontario, and unlucky enough to have to listen to the loudest version of “Go Cubs Go” I have ever heard as I walked through a sea of W flags as I trudged out of it. Hopefully 2017 ends on a better note.

Next year with a (hopefully) fully healthy team we have a legitimate shot to slay the dragon that is the Cubs lineup and collection of current and future Cy Young award winners. Kluber, Carrasco, Salazar, Bauer and Tomlin is the best rotation in baseball. With only 3 of them (well 3 minus one complete pinky finger) took the best team in baseball to 10 innings in Game 7 of the World Series.

It seems to be the consensus that Wednesday night was the greatest baseball game ever played. I will say, there were plenty of sloppy mistakes this past week, and especially Game 7, thanks to two incredibly young teams panicking at all the wrong times. It was not the most well played World Series and or Game 7 ever played, but it’s hard to argue it wasn’t the most dramatic.

(Sorry for accidentally ripping half the buttons off your jersey when Lester bounced that ball off of Ross’s face and Kipnis made his break for home brother. Sorry for launching an errant fist into your jaw when Rajai tied the game at six dad.)

So there you have it Cleveland and Chicago. Hug your brother, mom, dad, aunt, uncle, brother, sister, grandpa, grandma, dog, favorite pillow, or whoever or whatever else you need to. Shed the last tear, throw on a hoodie and sweatpants, and keep in mind it’s only 100 days until pitchers and catchers report to spring training.

See you in 355 days for the beginning of the rematch Chicago.