By Emily Wild, Staff Writer

I am a die-hard Cleveland Indians fan. That being said, the past few weeks of playoff baseball have been a roller coaster of emotions. But nothing could prepare me for Game 7.

I settle in to watch the final game with my friend in my dorm room, not wanting to be seen in public shouting after umpires’ questionable calls against Cleveland.

When the Cubs’ Dexter Fowler smacks a home run off of Indians’ pitcher Corey Kluber on the third pitch of the game, it feels like the wind has been knocked out of me. My jaw hangs open in disbelief as I brace myself for eight more innings of crappy baseball.

But my Indians keep the damage to a minimum, and I keep my cool for the next few innings.

In the third inning, when the Indians’ Carlos Santana hits a liner that scores Coco Crisp, I stand up and clap my hands together without saying a word. It’s tied up, but it’s far too early to get overly excited.

And it’s a good thing I don’t because heading into the seventh inning, the Indians sit at a three-run deficit.

I sit silently on the floor, cradling my chin in my palms. I’m hungry and have to go to the bathroom, but I am too dejected to move.

But in the bottom of the eighth, I hold my head a little higher after the Indians’ Brandon Guyer hits an RBI double. I flip the Cleveland hat that I am wearing inside-out to make a “rally cap.”

When the Indians’ Rajai Davis hits a two-run shot to tie the game, I jump out of my chair and scream with joy. My friend buries me in an embrace that almost knocks me to the floor.

I watch the remainder of the eighth and ninth innings standing up. Right before extra innings begin, the game is delayed because of the rain in Cleveland.

I pace around the room. I call my mom. I organize my desk. I make my bed. Anything to take my mind off the agonizing wait.

The game starts back up. The Cubs score two runs in the top of the tenth, and I watch the Indians blow the last half-inning while curled up in the fetal position beneath my covers.

As the Cubs begin to celebrate on my screen, a single tear drips down my right cheek. I turn off the TV in disgust.

In time, I will try to be happy for the Cubs for breaking their franchise’s 108-year-long championship drought.

But for now, I will stay in my bed and mourn the loss of my beloved Cleveland Indians.

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