Baseball is a family thing with the Spiegels.

I love it and relate to it based on early interactions with the archetypal baseball fan, my Pops.

My brother’s high school team was good, and they were gods to a fourth-grader like me. After constant pestering, I was made official bat boy. I beamed when their team bus would pick me up at elementary school for away games.

In daily driveway games of what he called “Tenni-Ball,” a round tabletop with a strike zone painted on it was an effective catcher. I was allowed to play outfield across the street.

I was the youngest fan our brood had, for decades.

My nephew is a very good 17-year-old pitcher on an even better high school team. I’ve written about him here before, when Pops and I watched him strike out 7 of 9 hitters as a 14-year-old.

A few weeks ago I sat behind his mother and watched a ballgame over both of their shoulders.

My nephew was in the dugout of a Frontier League ballfield in Joliet. He stood on the top step the entire game, rooting on his teammates as they battled for an IHSA championship. For him, it was as big an atmosphere as he has ever played in.

They believe they are men, and by many rights they are. But they are still kids in our eyes as we watch. They remind us of our distant youth, and of time’s incessant march. My sister birthed that lefty pitcher with the mutton chops. Now he’s as old as she was when she was an all-state soccer player. I went to her games and watched then, too.

It was truly great to be there; a heart-pumping atmosphere on a June night with a comforting chill that reminiscent of October.

Baseball is a very good game, demanding unique focus and skills from the people who play it.

The ace fought his way through 5 shutout innings. His opposition did the same.

Our heroes hit fastballs hard, and it felt like a breakthrough was imminent. But a runner was caught stealing in their only rally, and some good contact went unrewarded.

In the sixth, the other guys got a hit, a well-executed bunt, and then a double to the gap to plate the game’s only run. And that would be that, 1-0.

I watch the pros every night, looking for windows into who they are as people. It’s how I’m wired.

Players this young can’t hide their humanity. Our ace was rattled; there was a balk and some wildness, which he impressively survived without further damage. The batters trying to tie it up for the final six outs understandably felt the pressure at the end. Eagerly trying to deliver, they didn’t go as deep into counts as they had so often before.

Patience is demanded. Calmness is rewarded. Anxiety is often punished. The game helps us grow.

What a tremendous season for the young men of my nephew’s high school. What a great time in his life, with the promise of another chance with more involvement a year from now.

What a fun experience for this writer to have a team to root for with fervor. My sister was so nervous she couldn’t talk, and I respected that as we just watched.

We watched a game I’m glad my family has chosen to love.

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.

I’m standing in the whole between shortstop and 3rd, where Addison Russell might make a leaping throw back across the infield to get a tough out at first.

But I’m listening to Phish bash their way through The Rolling Stones’ “Loving Cup.”

What a surreal, perfect night. It’s as palpable a world collision as Hot Stove, Cool, Music, but maybe even more visceral. Leaning on a guard rail, staring at the pitcher’s mound and discussing the scientific improbability of being able to hit a baseball, all while my hippie sensibilities are simultaneously indulged.

The stands are filled with happy, swaying weirdos. They’re amazing to watch, and I spend a lot of the night with my back towards the stage. The press box level is fully desolate, including the broadcast booth above the 670 logo. This night isn’t about the usual crowd you find up there. Like me.

Tonight I’m down here, among thousands filling the general admission space atop a metal plated outfield. In deep center a stage is adorned with two giant video screens, though as of 2016 they’re dwarfed by the ballpark’s own. My eyes keep drifting to the old hand-controlled one atop the bleachers, as if someone was keeping score.

Everybody’s winning. Darkness reveals a solid light show. More blue! Oooh, purple, fade it into red, ads some green, hint at yellow, but back to blue! Soothing. The lighting cues fit the jams.

This band I saw for the first time at The Campus Club in Providence, Rhode Island in May of 1991 has held up remarkably well. That’s the thing; they’re older, balding, graying, but still going. Like most of us. The bond intensifies as our numbers dwindle. I’m glad these guys have gotten past some well publicized issues with pills and booze. I’m happy for their ability to function, thrive, and survive. Call it a low bar, but we all know people who’ve succumbed by now.

Chalk Dust Torture is song #2. A moment of pure musical glee. Ahhhhhhhhh. Look to the sky, drink in the moment, feel the gratitude of being in this spot at that hour. All my vasoconstrictors they come slowly undone.

I go get a drink, moving 15 feet to the right. I’m now very close to the left field line, still “on” the dirt; at Javy Baez’ spot in a no-doubles formation. I could make a cat-quick dive to my right to smother a shot headed towards the corner. Of course, it’d take me about 30 seconds to collect myself and get up, but hey…no double. Probably.

It’s my first show ever at Wrigley. I hope the outfield grass is not damaged by our trampling stank. Would love to be here when the grass is set free on Sunday.
Otherwise, the place is holding up phenomenally well. The GA entrance at Sheffield and Waveland was an absolute breeze. There’s plenty of space around the perimeter to walk, gape, dance, stumble, and socialize. I’ve never been so happy to pay 11 bucks for a beer, since the assortment is solid and the vendors plentiful.

It was a rare, magic night. A night when the atmosphere provided what I used to think I needed hallucinogens to receive. Connection. To the music, to the crowd, between my past and present, between my passions and vocations. It’s all too beautiful.

I’m not even that mad they didn’t play Llama, or Squirming Coil, or You Enjoy Myself, or Stash, or Cavern, or Golgi Apparatus, or….

http://phish.net/setlists/?d=2016-06-24