She opened the refrigerated compartment of my dad’s life’s work, so roundly mocked by the British press and Eleanor alike. Inside was a perfectly chilled case of Miller Lite. It was only then that I noticed a side table stuffed with Cracker Jack, Doritos, Pop-Tarts, and hot dog condiments.

“Althorpe will deliver the tube meat momentarily,” Eleanor said.

What the hell, I thought, and threw my arms around my grandmother-in-law’s satin-clad shoulders.

“Yes, you’re welcome,” she said, patting my back with a stiff palm. “It was mostly Nicholas’s idea. He spoils you.”

“Enough blathering,” said Marta, sitting up from one of the couches. “I am ancient and I could die at any minute and I do not want the last thing I see to be you two blubbering.” She peered at Lacey. “Something is different about you,” she said. “Did you cut your hair?”

Lacey looked down at her prominent bump and then shrugged. “Yes,” she said. “I actually did do that.”

“She’s right. Enough talking. Beer me.” I plunged my hand into the cooler of the couch-fridge, sitting there like my dad’s proxy, and pulled out a can and cracked it open, licking off the foam that spurted from the top.

“Disgusting,” Eleanor said.

“If we win, you have to drink one. While wearing a Cubs hat.”

“I accept, simply because if you’ve taught me anything, it’s that we are going to lose this game in agonizing fashion,” Eleanor replied, claiming her side of the Coucherator with an irritated expression. Then she wriggled a little. “This is not uncomfortable. I might keep it.”

The game was a seesaw. Our 3–0 lead became 5–1 and then 6–3, and then suddenly in the bottom of the eighth an exhausted and overused Aroldis Chapman gave up the tying run.

“Whyyyyy,” I moaned, sliding into a heap on the floor. This was it. It was over. In my entire lifetime of rooting for the Cubs, they finally decided to push it as far as possible before breaking my heart. Game seven. Kill me.

“My stomach hurts,” Lacey said. “From the Cracker Jack,” she added when I sat up quickly and squawked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“And I’m sorry I dragged you over here to witness my emotional ruin,” I said. “You’re getting married in a week. You need to be sleeping.”

“I was sleeping during about four of those innings,” she said. “You just didn’t notice. I think Eleanor was ranting about Jon Lester’s pitch count.”

“She’s the best student I’ve ever had,” I said. “It kills me that I can’t take you to Wrigley someday.”

“Says who?” Eleanor said.

“Your doctors, probably,” I said. “Also, I can’t imagine anyone letting you get away with asking an ump if he’s as blind as a bat, or just doesn’t know what a swinging wooden one looks like.”