Today is the five-year anniversary of the Steve Bartman incident. Here’s the story of where I was the night of October 14, 2003. It promises to be at least 15 percent entertaining. Maybe.

First semester of college is an odd time. It’s odd because you are likely living in a 15 x 15 foot space with an individual you’ve never met before; it’s odd because your mother is no longer making your dinner and doing your laundry; it’s odd because you’re awkwardly trying to figure out where you fit in this world of new found freedom. It’s also odd because the Cubs — yes, the Chicago Cubs — are 45 minutes away from a World Series berth and you’re watching it on a 20-inch TV screen in your dorm room.

And what made this worse for my 18-year-old White Sox fan psyche was the fact that my entire floor — nay, the entire campus in lovely Bloomington, IN. — had transformed itself into Wrigleyville. You could not traverse the arboretum on the walk from the Northwest neighborhood down to class on Third Street without seeing an ungodly amount of Cubs hats, Cubs shirts, Cubs jackets, Cubs bicycles, Cubs trampolines, Cubs dogs, Cubs cats. (Also: I think they changed IU’s school colors from cream and crimson to blue and red at one point.) This made me ill, made me weak.

And here this whole contingent of fans — whether bandwagon or not — were set to burst at the seams. Mark Prior just needed a few more outs and boom: off to the World Series. As my (co-ed, rawr) floor was wont to do, nearly everybody’s door was swung open, because hey, we were a friendly lot and didn’t hide behind closed doors. (Unless we were watching porn.)

So, there was no hiding from the hooting and hollering of Cubs fans on my floor, a floor which seemed to suddenly be entirely comprised of these wretched people — my ears were awash all game. And then, it happened. People didn’t freak so much about Bartman. No, it was the totality of that inning. The Castillo walk. The Rodriguez single. The Gonzalez error. The Derrek Lee double. The Conine sac fly. The Mordecai double. The noise emitting from everyone’s rooms quickly became complete and utter euphoric deflation.

The clapping and positivity turned to sighs and “noooos!” and profanity. It was complete and utter shock; it was panic; it was well, it was awesome. Because I went out of my way to exit my room and clap in the hallway in everyone’s face. Juvenile, sure. But it felt good.

The Cubs lost. My Cubs fan roommate came home from his friend’s place where he watched the game, angry and disheveled. So did he too, the next night with Kerry Wood on the mound as the Cubs lost Game 7 at home.

I own one Marlins shirt. In fact, still do. That next morning after Game 7, I wore that Marlins shirt to my 8am class. It was about the only thing that made me smile about getting up that early.