Curiosity can masquerade as a sneaky byproduct of procrastination. Inertia can then be intellectually rationalized.

I have not written about the baseball season of two years ago nearly as much as I wish I had. Sometimes I think that’s holding me back from being truly present and productive. A life long deep-seated need to document all good experiences and capture them forever has met its match.

2016 is the greatest year in which I have ever been close to baseball.

That was a difficult sentence to phrase, because the feelings and experiences I desperately need to package and file away are about the year. The whole thing. And like a young hitter’s progress, they’re not necessarily linear.

For starters, I am not “in” baseball. I have been “around” baseball, and therefore “close to” baseball a great deal. I have spent time in the dugouts and press boxes of Fenway, Wrigley, Comiskey 2, Dodger, and several more.

I have seen games in all of those, plus old Yankee, old Shea, Baltimore’s old Memorial Stadium, Milwaukee’s old County Stadium, The Vet in Philly, and others….19 in all. I recently wrote about ballpark collecting.

Funny. Here I am, trying to write about 2016 in so completist and perfect a fashion that I have started with the history of my baseball everything. Such is the power of that season.

The history of my baseball everything begins with Dad. And he was part of 2016. It continued with brother Bob. And he was part of 2016. It is felt deeply in my son, and he was there. It is revitalized by my fiery Latina, and she was there.

The history of my baseball everything was dominated by a love of the Red Sox for my first 21 years, then control was wrestled slowly, achingly away via new long-lasting proximity to the intense character and history of the Chicago Cubs and White Sox. For 26 years I have worked here, lived with these teams, covered them, and felt the fans’ roller coaster with as much sports empathy as I could muster.

The Red Sox finally broke their curse 12 years into my Chicago immersion, and I felt an odd, wistful distance from that title in 2004. 7 years later, the Red Sox’ mastermind came to me.

Theo Epstein brought hope and credibility to Wrigley, and an inconceivable 5 years culminated with a title in 2016.

My baseball everything had found me and smacked me in the present, bringing levels of satisfaction, understanding, and access that will never be topped. I was on the field after the Cubs beat the Dodgers to go their first World Series since 1945. I went to 4 games of that Fall Classic as media, and 3 as a fan. I have stories of postgame interactions I can never tell.

It’s not going to get better. I have to admit that.

This, I think, is my fear of the writing; that the writing will be letting it go.

But I have to trust that by writing it, I am doing the opposite of letting it go. I am strengthening the experience. I am setting myself up for the kind of legible refresher I’ll need for however long I live. And this is me sharing stories that my son will need in order to truly know his dad. These are stories maybe you will someday need. They might be stories we need right now.

You’ve been there with me, as I’ve tried to write the truth.

I took you to Mesa, as the future started to take shape.
I took you to the playoffs, when they vanquished the cardinals in 2015.
I took you to “the big bed” in my home during the Giants series in 2016, when my son so obviously cemented himself as a Cubs fan that all I could do was lean back and grin.
I took you to Game 7.

So, where else have we not gone?

*******

Hot Stove, Cool Music was held Thursday night at the Metro. I’ve been looking forward to it for months, following the lead of the tireless and enthused Len Kasper. There were lots of schemes and plans. Len has grabbed the reins of the musical side of this thing and made it better every year. I’m really happy to help him with it.Last year, the headliner seized an opportunity to grandstand. This particular attempt at being a fearless truth-teller was woefully misguided.  He embarrassed himself with inaccuracies and downright foolishness. He bummed out a group of organizers and participants who deserve far better.

So this year, Theo Epstein called in the big gun.

Eddie Vedder, what a gem. Warm, mellow, kind. He paid for his longtime guitar tech and monitor person to fly in. He decided he wanted his favorite Cub growing up, Jose Cardenal, to be there. So Eddie flew him in.

Eddie was pleasantly surprised at the musical competence at our rehearsal, because we got the right guys Pros. Great players with good vibes, who did their work to learn everything and showed up ready to go. The rehearsal stretched long, arrangements were adjusted by good ideas, and he showed what a generous musician a big-time rock star can still be.

Joe Shanahan and the Metro are the perfect host and venue. That place reeks of historic rock credibility, and it sounds amazing when it’s full.  Every year, this is my favorite green room.  Musicians, baseball execs, radio people, Hall of Fame writers, random former Cubs and/or Red Sox.

Green room

Early in the night, I turned a corner and eavesdropped on a moment: Theo and Jose Cardenal one-on-one.

Jose: “You’re doing a great job, man…”

Theo: “Thank you Jose. This is a special team to work for, and you’re a part of it.  I want you there when we win, OK?”

Jose: “Yes, yes, man … I’ll be there, thank you.”

TO READ THE ENTIRE ARTICLE, WITH LINKS AND STORIES GALORE, CLICK HERE.

You’ll see why I taught a vocal part to these guys.

You get to Wrigley Field at 8:15 a.m. The neighborhood is already buzzing, and the ballpark bar is filled with workers prepping for the masses.

You’re part of a radio show speaking directly to the hopes, fears, joy and criticism of a rabid Cubs fan base that still can’t quite believe this is happening. Your interactions are alternately filled with calm, titillation, analysis, nervous laughter and genuine romance.

The president of baseball operations sits down with you at 11:30 a.m. and thinks back to his first few months on the job in late 2011. He tells you about the 125 members of the scouting and development team, all together in a hotel ballroom in Mesa, painstakingly mapping out a manual on how the Cubs were going to teach the game. There was one day for hitting, one for pitching, one for defense, a fourth to consolidate. A blueprint emerged. He tells you how this week those same 125 people were flown in, with their families, to walk the warning track and sit in the bleachers for the first home playoff game of the era the day before.

Symmetry. Deserved rewards.

The manager tells you at 12:40 p.m. that he couldn’t be more proud of his team, for approaching these moments the way they have. He doesn’t say it, and he doesn’t need to, but you know he has been the driving force for their confidence and calm. He’s a master of both strategy and atmosphere. He told you at the beginning how trusting relationships would be built and how brutal honesty would get the best from his players.

It’s worked.

The show ends, the neighborhood fills and you wait for your friend to meet you for the game. He’s a lifelong Cubs fan, approaching 50, ready to attend his first ever October game. You’re in the upper deck on the first-base side. You get sky and sunset views. The orange and red foliage on neighborhood trees behind the bleachers reminds you all evening that this is fall baseball, and your gratitude multiplies.

You stand with two strikes, for every batter on either team. You question the best manager you’ve ever seen when his starter gets hit hard, because that’s your right. You’ve invested the hours watching and learning the game so you can feel you ought to be in charge. The fans are glad you aren’t.

You high-five strangers when the Cubs get out of a jam. You jump and cackle when the pitcher gets an RBI single. You watch the hot-headed Cardinals pitcher lose his cool and hope he crumbles.

You watch the last remaining rookie slugger join the power barrage, guessing fastball against a frustrated pitcher and destroying a three-run homer into the right-field bleachers. You watch him sprint around the bases, jump into the dugout and bounce from teammate to teammate as the crowd roars, knowing of his traumatic season and arduous work to get through it.

Deserved rewards.

As the “middle closer” is striking out the side to get out of a fourth-inning scare, you hear a swell of cheers moving behind you and turn around. There’s the owner, walking the aisle between the 400 and 500 levels, high-fiving every fan in his path. He knows how patient they’ve been. He’s also drinking in their appreciation, accepting the praise for how he’s allowed the architect to build the foundation.

Deserved rewards.

It’s 4-3, Cubs. The scrap-heap starter turned reliever is trying to survive a threat. A single to right field ties the game but doesn’t give up the lead. Instead you watch the right fielder, who will soon be subbed out for a better defender, deliver an absolutely perfect throw. He’s the best athlete on the field, and he’s playing the best baseball of his professional life at the most important of his times. You plan to watch the throw again and again when you get home.

Like your mom used to say, a beautifully executed play looks like ballet.

You watch the 26-year-old “veteran” leader take the lefty reliever deep for the second game in a row. You doubt one run is enough. Later, the 22-year-old slugger hits a blast you think must have hit one of those now-empty rooftops behind the giant right-field videoboard. The slugger gets a curtain call, which you miss because you’re still talking to strangers about the majesty of the bomb.

You cringe when the reliever you don’t trust, against St. Louis, comes in, and then you smile when he dominates. You watch the closer bring the shrine tantalizingly close to bliss, needed outs dwindling down to one. The best Cardinal singles, bringing the tying run to the plate. It’s not going to feel easy.

Good. This isn’t easy. Rebuilding an organization isn’t easy. Finding future stars in the draft, in trade and in international signings isn’t easy. Coming together as a mix of players and accepting whatever role the boss asks of you isn’t easy. Hell, trusting the plan while watching three years of noncompetitive baseball from your couch isn’t easy.

And winning a playoff series against the top rival and organizational model isn’t easy. It’s stressful for the viewers. But the stress makes the success that much sweeter. This is why you always embrace the stress.

They win. You look to the sky. You think of Cubs fans you loved who aren’t here, and you hope they’re watching. You thank the stars for your presence. You hug your friend. You sing along to a song you hate. You let yourself say nothing, drinking in as much as your senses will allow. You sing some more. You text your father. You don’t leave.

You watch men in uniforms and then suits pile on to each other with that special mix of relief and elation. You watch the media scurrying to capture their words. You look to the brand new videoboard to see the disco-ball champagne celebration going on inside the clubhouse. You see the shortstop-turned-second baseman who took so much criticism this year in ski goggles spraying champagne onto the ceiling, and you wonder how on earth we all got here.

Deserved rewards.

You want to see that twice more.

By Matt Spiegel–

(CBS) That was the craziest sporting event I’ve ever attended.

It may have been the greatest Game 7 in World Series history.

It surely was the most anticipated baseball game in decades, and it lived up to every bit of the hype.

There are myriad schematic machinations to be broken down regarding the Cubs’ thrilling 8-7 win in 10 innings against the Indians on Wednesday night. Dozens of key plays demand scrutiny, bizarre managerial mistakes beg explanation and moments of personal redemption deserve due. But details will eventually fade. In a few years, we’ll have to look them up as evidence to back up what we’ll always remember.

It’s the volatile emotional swings this 2016 clincher provided that will stick. The game was alternately thrilling and painful, shifting between premature parade planning and the seeming certainty of encroaching doom. It was exactly what a 108-year drought-ender had to be, a classic microcosm of a century’s struggle.

“It felt like we played a whole season in one game,” Cubs outfielder Dexter Fowler said afterward.

Tell me about it. So much got twisted from the first inning to the 10th that Fowler’s lead-off home run feels like it happened in August.

I’ve always been convinced that the baseball gods are giggling sadists. This night devolved from a three-run eighth-inning lead into absolute torture. Even when the game rewards you, it usually hurts along the way.

How dark did you get?

When Aroldis Chapman came in from the bullpen in the eighth inning, the dread hit me. From the moment his acquisition was just a rumor, I wanted no part of him. I woke up that morning on July 25 hoping the trade would fall apart and discussed it on air all week.

Chapman’s appearances have always stressed me out and produced uncomfortable feelings — and not just because of moralism regarding his off-the-field issues. I find him incredibly frustrating as a pitcher. His fastball can be very straight, and if it drops a tick from the devastating 101 mph and above, he’s beatable. His trust in his slider is inconsistent. And as the months went on, it became apparent that his situational comfort zone was extremely narrow. A clean ninth inning seemed to be the one time he’d shine.

So when the only real unlikable player on this great Cubs team blew the lead via a Rajai Davis home run, bitter fear had already been flowing.

I got angry at Chapman. I got angry at the front office, who I’d felt had sold their soul just a bit in order to get him. I got angry at manager Joe Maddon, whose unnecessary misuse of Chapman in Game 6 had clearly weakened him. I stayed angry at Maddon, reflecting on the horrific early hook for Kyle Hendricks and the insertion of Jon Lester and David Ross mid-inning with a runner on base. I stayed angry at Maddon some more, thinking that Lester could have gotten out of the eighth inning himself and allowed Chapman his precious clean ninth.

The brilliant Zen philosopher baseball manager let the pressure exceed the pleasure several times in these last three games. He seemed to stick with a theoretical plan of using the players he thought he was supposed to use and stopped reading the situations. He pulled starters too early, put relievers in dangerous spots and overused his strikeout closer. The fact that Maddon got away with it and won a World Series avoided massive damage to his legacy.

In the midst of the darkness, rain came and everything paused. The vibes reset. We found out later that the Cubs had an emotional players’ meeting in the weight room, with Jason Heyward leading an impassioned discussion about refusing to quit. Chapman apparently was in tears, feeling the weight of his Maddon-assisted failure. The Cubs emerged from the 17-minute break rejuvenated and frisky.

Soon, I felt the same. A two-run 10th inning rally was beautiful, with Ben Zobrist’s heroics cementing his opportunity to be a car dealer and/or restaurateur in this town for decades. Carl Edwards Jr. came in to close the game; I felt giddy and confident. Chapman wouldn’t be on the mound for a highlight we’ll see for a century to come.

Edwards faltered, and Mike Montgomery entered with a one-run lead. I still somehow felt giddy and confident. It was time.

And then there it was, the final out. Next came the on-field celebration, a phone-buzzing onslaught of congratulatory texts and the sudden realization that we live in a brave, new world.

The “lovable losers” tag is officially history. The goat mythology is reduced to an incredulous story for your grandkids to doubt. No more late-night talk show hosts will go to the punchline well and ladle out lazy Cubs shots.

These Chicago Cubs are built to contend for a good long while. “Wait ‘til next year” no longer reads like wistful hope; it’s become a foreboding threat.

Yes, there are some details I’ll remember. Corey Kluber’s repeated short rest caught up to him; he struck out no one in his four-plus innings for the first time all year. Indians manager Terry Francona, who owned this postseason with progressive bullpen creativity, waited one batter too long to go to ace reliever Andrew Miller, who himself was beaten up for the first time in a month. David Ross committed an error and couldn’t stop a wild pitch that scored two runs, only to make up for it with a home run in his final game. Javier Baez made two sloppy errors, then provided his own home run redeemer.

But the exhausting, temperamental emotional test that fans were forced to pass is what will linger. The giggling sadist baseball gods demanded one more pound of flesh from Cubs nation. And you had no choice but to give it up.

This time, however, the story didn’t end there. The heavens opened, and showers cleaned the slate.

Theo Epstein’s 2016 Cubs are designed as beautifully as his 2004 Red Sox were.  This team was too good, too complete and too mentally strong to fall down and simply not get up.

On Wednesday night, the Cubs changed the sports world for good.

Wrigley Field is no longer just an incredibly pleasant summer-long diversion.

It is the home of the world champion Chicago Cubs.

Say it loud, as much as you need to, until it feels as real as it should.

Matt Spiegel is a host on the Spiegel and Goff Show on 670 The Score from 9 a.m.-1 p.m. on weekdays. Follow him on Twitter @MattSpiegel670.