“Her trash talk needs work, Bex,” Lacey said.

“That’s a season two project.”

“That’s enough from both of you,” Eleanor said, but I could see the corner of a smirk.

The Cubs blew a chance to break the tie in the ninth, and right before the tenth inning began, a freak cloudburst sent them into the locker rooms.

“Ohhhhhhh,” I moaned. “Extra innings. In game seven. In a rain delay.” I clutched at myself. “I can’t do this. It’s torture. My skin is going to crawl off and move to Tahiti and leave me here in a pulpy pile of innards.”

“Vivid,” Marta said, yawning.

“I must say, this has been a gripping program,” Eleanor said.

Lacey popped a cube of cheese into her mouth. “I wonder what they’re doing in the locker room.”

“Banging their chests and talking about destiny,” I suggested around the thumbnail I was biting to the quick. It was the only nail I had left. “Maybe one of you should kill me now and get it over with.”

“Toughen up,” Marta commanded. “They’re coming back. You’re going to miss it.”

But instead, I witnessed a miracle. We scraped together two runs after an intentional walk. (“Hit him with a pitch if you want to give him a base,” Marta grumbled. “Much more fun.”) My spleen nearly exploded when we got the first two outs of the bottom of the tenth. My appendix considered bursting when the Indians stole a base, then drove in a run. But unbelievably, improbably, the hitter at the plate who could have been the winning run for the Indians—the one whose RBI took game three from us—grounded out. One hundred and eight years of futility were wiped off the board with a textbook toss to first base. We won. We…won?

“WE WON!” I screamed, hurling my Cracker Jack in the air and clinging to Eleanor as I jumped up and down. “OH MY GOD WE WON. DAD. WE WON!”

“GO ON, MY SONS!” Eleanor yelled. Her primary point of sporting references was still horse racing. “Brilliant. WHAT heart. WHAT a RESULT.”

“Watch your blood pressure,” Marta said.

“Hang my blood pressure, Mummy,” Eleanor retorted. “We are the WORLD CHAMPIONS.”

Lacey laughed and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Your Majesty,” she said. “Only you would manage to adopt baseball’s lovable losers the exact year they become legends.”

“It’s no accident,” Eleanor said. “I know another legend when I see one.”

I ran around the room waving my hands in the air and yelling like a maniac, before returning to present Eleanor with her ceremonial beer.

“A promise is a promise,” I said, my adrenaline still pumping.