It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when I became a Cubs fan.

But I know it was sometime between the morning street baseball games and dinner.

During the heat of the day, I’d be in the living room listening to Harry Caray and Steve Stone call the action from Wrigley Field.

That’s been nearly 25 years ago. I don’t remember much about 1984, but I still detest Steve Garvey and hang my head at the mention of Leon Durham. I wasn’t alive in 1969, but that doesn’t mean I don’t idolize Ron Santo, shiver at the mention of black cats and celebrate the fact that Shea Stadium is finally closing.

I first saw Wrigley in 1990, when my dad took me there for my 13th birthday. I’ve been back many times since, but that initial rush I got from walking up the tunnel and seeing the field for the first time never changes.

There’s nothing like being a Cubs fan, and there’s no real good way to explain to someone who isn’t, exactly what it’s like following a team that gives you so many thrilling highs and crushing lows.

Even today, with Harry gone, Steve Stone on the Southside and fewer and fewer games on WGN, I still hang on every result.

And that’s how I’ll be for years into the future, regardless of how this season turns out.

Ryan Aber, Staff Writer

Sometimes, you just know things in your heart. The first time I walked into Wrigley Field, saw the ivy on the walls, looked out at the hand-operated scoreboard in center field, felt the sun shining down from above, I knew that’s what baseball is supposed to be like.

Like a lot of people, I had followed the Cubs from far away, but it wasn’t until I walked down Clark Street and saw the ballpark sprout up in the middle of Wrigleyville that I fell in love. I saw Mark Grace’s sweet left-handed swing and Sammy Sosa sprinting out to right field and saluting the fans and Harry Caray leaning out of the broadcast booth to sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” And I felt like I had finally come home.

Like any love affair, there have been ups and downs. But I survived Steve Bartman and the 2003 NLCS, so I figure I’m probably in it for life. And in my heart, I know that if I stick with the Cubs, they’ll eventually win it all. Anyone can have a bad century, right?

Kendall Matthews, Staff Writer

I became a Cubs fan long before I knew what I was getting myself into. I was 5 years old in 1984, but my dad had been taking me to All Sports Stadium to watch 89ers games for a few years already.

That was my first Cubs hook. As soon as I learned that Ryne Sandberg had once played for the 89ers, he instantly became my favorite player.

That’s how they landed me for life. Because when I was 5, the only thing I found more entertaining than a good Tom and Jerry cartoon was Harry Caray singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

My first heartbreak came in 1989 with the NLCS loss to the Giants.

I still hate Will Clark. I really believed the Cubs were going to win it all that year, and when they didn’t, I was crushed. I never let myself believe that strongly in the Cubs’ World Series hopes again.

Until 2003. Before anyone knew who Steve Bartman was, and before Alex Gonzalez booted a routine double-play ball, I was planning my trip to Chicago for the Series, even if I had to watch from Waveland Ave. Then my hopes were crushed again. So I’m maintaining my minimalist expectations this year.

Scott Wright, Staff Writer

I’m a Chicago Cubs fan Being a Cubs fan is all about being able to take the best and worst that life has to throw your way.

The sun has always come up the next day. I’ve lived through Leon Durham, the fist pump by Steve Garvey, Ryne Sandberg, Shawon Dunston, Mark Grace and Sammy Sosa, Steve Bartman and 10 winning seasons since 1977. I’ve lived through talk of a billy goat and other stupid reasons for Cubs futility.

I’ve lived through 30 opening days when everyone has a chance to win. I’ve lived through the Tribune company not taking any real chances to improve the team.

But at the end of the day, being a Cubs fan is about believing in something you have no control over. Being a Cubs fan is about having hope that all things are possible but also realistic.

I hope my daughter understands all of this when she realizes I named her Addison, after the street outside Wrigley Field.

Matthew Clayton, Staff Writer

‘Twas as if someone decided, “As soon as you learn to walk, you may become a Cubs fan.”

Because that’s how it happened, sometime in the late ’40s.

Next door to us, in the house with the big front porch, were Mr. and Mrs. Woods. Almost every day during the summer, the kindly Mr. Woods would sit on the porch and listen to the Cubs, and he asked me to join him.

Some other Cubs memories: At a party in the ’70s, Ernie Banks’ now-former wife told me Mr. Cub wasn’t Dad of the Year. Ernie’s still No. 1 in my book, though... Just about the most thrilled I ever saw my dad was when I arranged for us to go to dinner with former Cubs slugger Hank Sauer... I missed the 1969 Cubs collapse, being in Vietnam all year, but my final year in the Army, 1970, was spent at Fort Sheridan near Chicago. I must’ve gone to 40 games at Wrigley that summer. Ernie would come out, jump up and click his heels together... Jack Brickhouse was, by far, the nicest Cubs voice, but Vince Lloyd was best voice, period... Bruce Sutter is the greatest relief pitcher of all time. Lee Smith isn’t close... Why isn’t Ron Santo in Cooperstown?... Overheard someone across the street from Wrigley say, “People come here because they’re Wrigley Field fans, not Cubs fans.”... To Jan Burton, Mike Treps and Chris Needham: Enjoy the Series! Bob Hersom, Staff Writer

Being born and raised in Chicago, it was pretty easy to get wrapped into Cubs culture. There are many Cub legends, but my favorite Cub will never get into the Hall of Fame but is in the Smithsonian.

Three Shawon Dunston fans began the Shawon-O-Meter in 1989, when he was only hitting .203. Dunston’s numbers went up, and the Cubs eventually won the division.

I’ll never forget when the meter eclipsed .280, and WGN cameras got a nice shot of the cardboard sign. The Shawon-O-Meter at .278 is in the Smithsonian.

While the sign made Dunston a household name in Chicago, his rifle right arm at shortstop made him a national name.

He wasn’t the most disciplined hitter in the box, routinely swinging at pitches six inches outside and in the dirt. But he always gave it his all – no one played the game harder than Dunston.

That desire personifies the Cubs and has been an easy thing to love through all the good and bad times the last 24 years and for all the years to come. Robert Przybylo, Staff Writer

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