The last five words of my grandmother's obituary _ "was an avid Cubs fan" _ leaned into my thoughts as I was leaving Cleveland early Thursday morning.
My grandfather, a World War II Army veteran, had brought her to the United States after the war ended in 1945, the last time the Cubs were in the World Series.
They kept her company over the years, especially after Grandpa died in 1999. Before every season I would print out for her a copy of that year's schedule.
She'd watch every game from the kitchen table on her little TV in her little mobile home, the volume always loud. She'd write down the score of every game on that schedule, add up the countless losses as spring turned to summer turned to fall.
After almost every season she would curse the curse in the German accent that never left her, laugh and then say, "Maybe next year."
I was two hours into my drive home that still-dark morning after the Cubs finally did it. After it finally happened. I was lost in these thoughts, about Grandma and that little TV and a lust for sleep when a car with Illinois plates zoomed by.
The plates read: "CUBZIN7."
Ten days before Grandma would have been 91 years old, the Cubs won their first World Series since 1908.
She seemed so close now. I wished she could have seen it. I wished I could have introduced her to Bob Dernier, who was one of her favorite Cubs from the 1980s.
Then my mind raced to who did see it _ barely. My Uncle Joe was in a car accident in January that left him paralyzed from the waist down. He spent seven or eight months in the hospital and endured many surgeries. When I told him I'd told Billy Williams about him, he smiled and immediately recited the 1969 Cubs lineup. Told me Williams was his idol.
I later told Williams that, and he asked me to thank Joe and wished him well.
That was the night the Cubs beat the Dodgers to clinch their place in the Series.
Uncle Joe was with his daughter, watching from the hospital bed in his bedroom.
I'm glad he was there. I wished I was there with him.
"They haven't killed me yet, but they might now," he said with his familiar "ha ha" exclamation.
As I opened the car door at the rest stop, my clothes finally drying but still smelling from the champagne celebration in the clubhouse, I stole a glimpse of another license plate in my side view mirror.
"CUBS," it read.
My weary mind turned to a good friend named Todd. He almost just missed the miracle, too, after he suffered an aortic rupture in December. He went through seven hours of emergency surgery.
After visiting him in San Diego in January, I wasn't sure his heart could handle a Cubs World Series.
"This one's gonna hurt. Bad," he texted me more times than I can remember during the playoffs.
Todd is in his 40s and was preparing his heart for another break.
I'm glad it didn't. I'm glad he was here to see this. I wish I could have been there with him.
I invest a lot of time in telling other people's stories. It's what I'm fortunate enough to do.
I was fortunate to tell David Ross and Hyla Ross' story, about how in August 2015, there was a chance Hyla and the high school sweethearts' newborn daughter might not survive. How five days later, from an intensive-care unit with Harper Lynn Ross in an incubator, David tracked on his phone Jake Arrieta's no-hitter and felt like a kid again.
I was fortunate to tell Matt Szczur's story, about how he saved the life of a little girl he didn't know when he donated his bone marrow to her. About how he reunited with her during the postseason after years of no communication.
And Javier Baez, who was a frightened 12-year-old who begged his mother to let him go back home two weeks after his family moved to the United States from Puerto Rico after his father died. About how happy it made his heart that his sister saw him fulfill a dream they hatched together as kids of him playing in the big leagues before she died of complications from spina bifida last year.
Sure, I'll remember the games. But I'll also remember the people who played the games. I'll remember the people who loved watching the games.
They have stories, too.
I'll remember the look on David Ross' face as he paced the tunnel, bat in hand, at Progressive Field before his final game more than I'll remember the home run he hit in it. I'll remember his teammates carrying him off the field after.
I won't forget seeing his son, Cole, passed out on his mother in the Cubs dugout late into that night, exhausted not from excitement but because he had the flu.
I'll never forget the look on Kris Bryant's face as he excitedly peaked through the doors of the spring training facility in March and saw mimes. I'll always remember the smile on his face as he picked up the ball and fired to Anthony Rizzo at first for the final out of a game 108 years in the making for so many people.
I was happy to witness history. I'm happier for Grandma and Uncle Joe and Todd and many others like them.
