It starts as a young boy if you are fortunate enough to have a father that has fallen under the most wonderful curse ever known. The curse of a Chicago Cubs fan. Every father is honored to pass the humility on to the next generation. That first trip to Wrigley field with the person you hold in the highest regard, your father, is when you become infected. Little do you know that you are starting on a trip down misery lane and it will be the most memorable trip you will ever have. It is a journey that evolves from year to year and decade to decade ending in the same painful statement, "Wait til next year!"

My experience as a Cub fan has taken an interesting twist in the last five years. I have come to a conclusion that saddens me and yet fills me with excitement. It is hard to admit to this change in thinking, especially when I remember that first time I walked up the steps to the seating area in Wrigley Field with my father. I am about to take you on my journey and maybe, just maybe, next year will finally be here.

It is all about the aura of Wrigley Field. That is where it really starts. A three hour trip for my father and me. We had plenty of time to talk about the Cubs, life, and school, anything that we wanted to. The anticipation would grow the closer we got to the Windy City. No matter how many times we drove down Lake Shore Drive, or the Dan Ryan Expressway, the excitement was hard to suppress. It finally happens, the chaotic process of finding parking. Everyone has their favorite Red Top lot or other "secret" spot and once the ignition is turned off and that first door flies open, it's too late to turn back. It is officially over, I am a Cub fan.

Of course, we have arrived hours early in hopes of seeing batting practice and all of the hoopla outside the ballpark that envelope a Cubs game. We are parked where we can see the electric train passing above us full of commuters. We can smell the brats and burgers from the local bars and pubs that scour the surrounding block of Wrigley Field. As a twenty something "adult" I would occasionally get yelled at from a second or third story window of an apartment directing me to the nearest "port a pot" instead of the alley below their window. The cultural hodgepodge that takes place outside of Wrigley field is where I received the first infection of being a Cub fan.

It is time to enter Wrigley Field and that split second when my dad and I are walking up the stairway to the seating

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