When my husband and I were first dating, he asked me out on a date to a Cubs game. I assumed that he was just another Chicago native who liked the Cubs. I considered myself a North Side supporter – I had the classic C wool cap and everything – but I certainly wasn’t a true follower of the team or the sport of baseball. Sure, my dad took us to a handful of Phillies games in the old Veterans Memorial Stadium in Philly when I was a kid, and I’ve gone to a scattering of Cubs games through the years, but it was purely a thing that locals do without any emotional commitment. Before that date I think I asked him a question I considered rhetorical: “You aren’t one of those crazy Cubs fans with season tickets, are you?”

The look on his face said it all.

It was clear that I was in for an unexpected journey. We sat in his season ticket seats, looking down the first baseline on a perfect summer night, held hands, drank beer, and ate hot dogs. Maybe it was the blush of true love. Maybe it was his genuine enthusiasm for teaching me the finer points of the game. Maybe it’s the spell that Wrigley Field casts upon those willing to wait 108 years for a World Series win. Whatever the source, I became a fan that night. And now, nearly 15 years later, we are raising Cubs fans of our own. We listen to games on the car radio when we’re out, watch them on TV when we are home, follow the National League standings, hate on the Brewers and Cardinals, but most importantly, now we are joined in those very same season tickets seats with our two boys as often as we can.

The funny thing about love for a team is how it sneaks up on you. Growing up in the Tampa Bay area, I never felt any loyalty to the Buccaneers (and they were truly terrible throughout my childhood there in the ‘80s). There wasn’t a local baseball team until much later, and even then, I had no inclination to root for them. I had no emotional connection, no reason to care.

But everything changed when it was about more than just me. My younger son is a baseball fanatic and plays both Fall and Spring seasons in our local league. The Fall teams are named after minor league teams, and for two years, he was on the Lugnuts. They had a terrific team full of his friends and parents we knew, and while their season didn’t last as long as we’d hoped, we all became fans of the Lansing team by some kind of osmosis. Maybe it was the joy of watching him and his friends jump around after a win. Maybe it was the hilariously off-color ‘Nuts’ jerseys. Maybe it was watching him pitch and learning how practicing really paid off when he struck out his first batter. Whatever it was, we’re on board with this franchise, and we’re even attending a Lugnuts game versus the Ft. Wayne Tin Caps over the 4th of July holiday weekend.

Our love for sports didn’t stop at baseball. My older son is a voracious soccer fan, and we regularly play FIFA together on the Nintendo Switch. He allows me to play as my favorite city team, Paris Saint-Germain, but he is loyal to the Liverpool Football Club. His love of football led us to watch the documentary Welcome To Wrexham, the series featuring the trials and tribulations of Ryan Reynolds and Rob McElhenney’s purchase of a struggling Welsh football club. I learned so much about the game of football from the series, and we were all obsessed with the lives of the players and staff. Maybe it was the charming, quirky characters of the town. Maybe it was Rob and Ryan’s exasperated commitment that turned passion turned undying love. Maybe it’s the joy of watching my son’s confidence blossom on the pitch and hearing him laugh when we play FIFA and I somehow manage to score. Whatever it is, add two more teams to the list.

Reflecting on these connections, I realize how deeply intertwined our lives have become with sports. I used to joke that I married into my love of the Cubs, but the truth is that riding along with my husband’s emotional rollercoaster relationship with the North Siders is part of what made me fall in love with him. His complete and utter joy after the World Series win in Cleveland, which he attended with his best friend, is an unparalleled moment that even our wedding and the birth of our kids just barely match. He’s a loving husband and caring father but not an effusive one. Watching his enthusiasm for his beloved Cubs in our early days allowed me to get a glimpse of the quietly complex person I was falling for.

Those early days at Wrigley were just the beginning of our journey. Now, as we sit in those same season ticket seats with our boys, I see the same spark of love and loyalty growing in them. The crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the joy of sharing a win—these moments bind us together, weaving baseball into the fabric of our family. I’m on board for extra innings in the life we’ve built together, cherishing each pitch and every play as part of our ever-evolving love story.