I was a victim at a young age. I had two brothers that were older than me and my Dad had been through the drill before. He knew that there was no better place to take a youthful, hope-filled and foolish little boy than Wrigley Field. Entranced by the smell of hot dogs, the glowing green ivy on the outfield walls and the tasteful blue pinstripe jerseys, I was lured in like a bass on a rainy day. In the words of a young Jimmy Fallon in “Fever Pitch”, I had become one of God’s most pathetic creatures: a Cubs fan.

At the time I didn’t care; I had nothing to complain about. The naps were good, the Lunchables were even better. In a whirlpool of college checklists and end of the year shenanigans, I found shelter at the corner of Waveland and Sheffield. Walking into the Budweiser Bleachers for the home opener of what was to be a season to remember, I couldn’t help but relive my favorite moments as a Cubs fan. From catching a ball that left-fielder Alfonso Soriano threw to me on my dad’s shoulders, to the Carlos Zambrano no-hitter in Milwaukee, to Chase Utley and Jimmy Rollins colliding in the outfield at my first night game, all I could feel was a surge of faith in a team that although long dead, had been revived through a commanding 97-win season. I got to my seats, looked around and caught sight of the sign in right field reading “Eamus Catuli! AC0871108.” Now, to the untrained eye, this jargon is a heaping pile of numbers and letters. However, growing up in a family that ate, spoke and slept Chicago Cubs I understood it and smiled. “Eamus Catuli,” latin for “Go Cubs,” “AC,” standing for “Anno Catuli,” meaning “In the year of the cub,” the 08 for years since our last division title (2008), 71 for 71 years since our last NL pennant (1945) and 108 for 108 years since our last world series title (1908). I couldn’t help but smile holding a true genuine belief that that sign next April 11 would read “Eamus Catuli! AC010101.”