I am a Cubs fan and have been since before I was born. My suffering was decided for me years ago when my dad’s dad moved to Chicago in 1964 and for some reason decided to yoke his descendants to the constantly burning wagon of hopelessness that is Chicago Cubs.

Let me tell you, though: We fully embraced that hopelessness. Our family has had season tickets since 1989. My parents’ first place was on Addison Street, half-a-throw away from Wrigley. Gene Clines (then the team’s first base coach) lived in the apartment above them—my mom drove his pregnant wife to the hospital when her water broke. He once took my dad to Sluggers for batting practice. He still sends us Christmas cards.

And that sort of chosen suffering continued with me. Throughout my childhood, I worshipped Sosa (embarrassing), Wood, Lee, Zambrano and even Fukudome (that was some hype) along with the heroes of the ’60s and ’70s—especially Santo. My 10th birthday party was at a Cubs game (they lost) and I held up a sign that said “Sarah and Santo, Perfect 10s,” hoping that Ron would see it from the press box (he did).

I named the family dog Addison, only because Clark (the other street that runs in front of the stadium) is a stupid name and Wrigley was taken by my cousins’ late Labrador (R.I.P., Wrigs, you were great).

Our family lives and breathes blue, but how is that different from anybody who loves the Cardinals, or any other team with a cultish following?

Yeah, you’ve been waiting for me to say it. None of us have ever seen the Cubs in a World Series. I don’t think any of my ancestors were even in this country the last time we WON a World Series (yeah, 107 years ago, I know, it’s hilarious), and the last time we won the pennant was less than a month after World War II ended. Some people say it’s because a guy cursed us after we kicked him and his pet goat out of the stadium (seriously, what?) during Game 4 of the ’45 World Series.

And glory hallelujah, we’re headed to the NLDS for the first time in seven years, and of course I’m excited. My hands are shaking and I’m honestly struggling to type without mashing my keyboard.

But I can’t get rid of this nagging voice in the back of my head that insists on reminding me of a very simple and depressing truth: Curse or not, every time we get close, something gets in the way of our redemption, anything from the Mets to an idiot with headphones. After 107 years, it makes you a bit cynical.

Cubs fans are known for our resilience—relentless cries of “wait until next year,” year after year after year after…century. We fill Wrigley each season with a special brand of hope that generally dies off by late August and, if it doesn’t, explodes into waves of crushing depression upon our inevitably fantastic failures in the (very rare) postseason.

But despite all of that cold, hard cynicism, compounded with a variety of ingrained superstitious beliefs that will prevent me from ever definitively saying that “this is the year,” well—I think this is a good sign.

Bite me, Cards fans. I’ll be wearing blue until this is through.