Game Seven. Bottom of the 10th. If my married life were a drinking game where my wife, Cindy, was forced to down a shot every time I had said “the Chicago Cubs haven’t won the World Series since 46 years before I was born,” she’d have gone through three livers by now. Yet, here were my Cubs, three outs away from forever banishing the number 46 from my vocabulary.

I’d been in Seattle earlier in the day for work and considered watching the game among strangers in a sports bar there, but that seemed wrong. I’d watched most of the Cubs’ postseason run with friends, and as I drove through town on the way back from the ferry just before first pitch, I saw familiar faces in front of the big screen at Sporty’s. But, suddenly, I felt I needed to be alone for this one. I wasn’t sure why.

I went home and sealed off the TV room as best I could from my baseball-weary wife (who lovingly accepted that she was in for a long night of thunderous clapping and scattered shrieks, with a 90 percent chance of sustained profanities).

Over four hours later, my team was on the brink of history. The Cubs’ pitcher opened the 10th inning with a swinging strikeout. I leapt and yelled. I paced behind the couch like a caged animal. My phone, as it had all evening, poured out dozens of texts from friends and family across the country: Two more! / Breathe, Jeff! / Oh my God! / Is this really happening? / I’m totally wasted! / How ya doin’ there, big guy?

The next batter smashed a grounder to shortstop, and just like that there were two outs! I gasped and froze in position with my hands on my head and my heart pounding.

Memories flashed. My dad lived his entire lifetime within the 108 years the Cubs had gone without a title. He never got to see them win it all, but if not for him, I’d have never become a fan. When I was growing up in northern Indiana, he took me to Wrigley Field for countless Sunday doubleheaders. My cousins and I were raised on Cubs baseball and knew every player’s stats, stance, style and swing.

I flashed to my childhood home, where I’d spend hours pitching tennis balls against the front steps, playing out nine full innings of the Cubs against the Cardinals or the Dodgers while calling the play-by-play aloud, no matter who could hear me.

I remembered throwing the tennis ball against the peaked facade above the living room window and making the diving, sprawling, game-ending catch on the lawn, then hopping up with the ball in my glove to whoop it up with my imaginary teammates.

And now, here was the moment that kid had imagined thousands of times — one out away from winning it all.

Then a walk, a stolen base and an RBI single. Now Cleveland had the tying run on base and the winning run stepping to the plate.

More memories: the 1969 Cubs, who blew an eight game lead in August and fell to the Mets. The 1984 Cubs, three innings away from a trip to the World Series before an epic collapse. And the 2003 Cubs, five outs away from punching their ticket, before the famous foul ball to Steve Bartman and the unraveling that followed.

Could it all slip away now?

Finally, a soft ground ball to third. Kris Bryant, sporting an ear-to-ear grin, scooped and fired to first baseman Anthony Rizzo, setting off a celebration 108 years in the making.

I burst into tears: deep, racking sobs. The Cubs and their fans were going crazy and my phone rang out with text after text peppered with all-caps and exclamation points, while Cindy held onto me as a lifetime of waiting and hoping came pouring out.

Later, I found out how many of my non-baseball fan friends had watched that game just because they cared that I cared. They watched out of simple solidarity with me. Just knowing this was good for another 24 hours spent on the verge of tears.

A week has passed, and I’ve realized that the Cubs’ march to a World Series championship provided seven little four-hour vacations for so many of us who were exhausted by the stress and strain of an interminable election season. The story ended in something good and hopeful and utterly American. That’s a trend worth continuing.

As for me, it sure felt great to finally reset my old Futility Clock. “Forty-six years before I was born” is now ancient history. The Chicago Cubs haven’t won the World Series since — last Wednesday.

— Besides being a lifelong Cubbie fan, Jeff Hoyt is an island voice actor.