GateHouse — As a lifelong Cubs fan and, by extension, an idiot, I was very much hoping the Cubs wouldn’t make it into the playoffs this year, that there would have happened by now one of those tangled freakshow events that would prevent my fragile hopes from ever taking root, such as an asteroid impact, or an attack by a stegosaurus or the Brewers’ sudden replacement of their players with ultra-mechanized super-robots.

This was an easy thing to hope at the beginning of the year, when they were heaving sacks of cash at mid-level pitchers via slingshot and, sometimes, catapult; it was easy to hope in the middle of the year, when things had reached that satisfying level of mid-summer indifference that has come to define the Cubs’ postseason chances; it was easy to hope for even in the last few weeks of the season, wherein the Cubs got into the playoffs by skillfully losing 300 consecutive games to the Marlins, a team that — and here’s something I didn’t really know until recently — fielded a whole major league baseball outfit this year, one that plays baseball nearly every day.

But it’s hard to hope for now, especially since last week the Cubs made the playoffs by virtue of a group of actually unrelated individuals losing a game in an entirely separate town. For the first time in four years and the fifth time in my lifespan, the Cubs are going to the playoffs, and I think I speak for all of Cub fandom when I say: I guess, whatever, I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

Please indulge my aggressive apathy; it’s not my fault — I just can’t take this anymore. I’m too old. My hairs are bleaching white, dozens by the day, enough so that when you ask my son what color my hair is, he’ll say with a refreshing lack of irony, “Daddy’s hair is black and white.” My heart does this thing where every now and again it just throws an extra beat into things for reasons known only to itself; I have crow’s feet, whatever those are, there are little spots in my field of vision, I get tired much easier and I’m way, way more into Sheryl Crow music than I’ve ever been in my life. Frankly, I don’t know if my stomach can handle another Bartman, another 1984, another whatever happened in 1998 — I don’t really remember. All I recall is going to the bar to watch Game 1 of the playoffs vs. the Braves, going to the bathroom between innings, and coming back out to find that the series was over, the Braves had won and I had no idea where my pants were (OK, that last one didn’t happen, but I’m trying to keep the interest of any non-baseball fans who are reading this for some reason).

So secretly, this year, when things started looking up, when the sky got a little bluer and the numbers started getting friendlier and the term “magic number” began being thrown about in a context other than a cruel joke in May, a part of me, sure, started to get excited, started to get energized. But a bigger, meaner and much more tattooed part of me said, stop, sit down. You’ve seen what teams like this are like. You’ve seen the horrors that can come out of this kind of co-dependent relationship. Don’t let her hurt you again. You broke it off once. Be strong. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t return her texts. When you’re sitting in the coffee shop and she comes in for her morning mocha, bury your face in the paper and pretend like you don’t see her. Because you don’t need this anymore. You’re older now, wiser. You can spot an abusive relationship three miles down the boulevard, and this one will mess you up for life, worse than the girlfriend who dumped you a day after prom and the one who broke up with you for the guy from Limp Bizkit put together. Shut the book, put it away and find some other, nicer team, a team that’s more stable, from a nice family, maybe knows how to cook.

And yet I sit here, shaking my head, reading words that I type knowing that when it comes down to it, I’ll be watching the damn games — on cable, what’s that about? — waiting for the next explosion. But I’ll be smarter this time, I’ll be looking out for it. It’s not gonna be like last time. Aw, who I am kidding, I’ll always be there for you. Because Cubs playoff baseball makes you brave and faithful and extremely, extremely stupid.