Cowboys and Indians. Oil and water. Socks and sandals.

Some things just historically don’t go together. Like Cardinals fans upset about a Cubs loss. But that was the reality I faced on this day.

On Sunday, a dream of every baseball fanatic almost became a reality – a one game playoff. Nine innings of do-or-die baseball. The winner left standing to advance to the postseason, the loser packing up and going home. A situation only dreamt about in the 161 games leading up to that fateful Sunday in October.

Going into Sunday’s games, both leagues had the possibility of a single-game playoff. Like a giddy schoolboy running laps around my house before my first day of kindergarten, I sat down in front of the television, excited about the events that were about to take place.

Sunday truly became the Holy day for a sports fan. ESPN and its affiliates deliver the sermon to the eager congregation of sports junkies, switching between a handful of important games at their most pivotal points. Can I get an Amen?

With my team’s spot in the postseason already tightly secured, I became a fan of great baseball. I rooted for the Cleveland Indians, cursing their lack of offense against the already playoff-bound White Sox. I pulled for the Yankees to come back against the Red Sox. I sang hymns during the seventh inning stretch.

As the day got later and Philadelphia held a modest lead over the Nationals, I focused my attention on the game that would decide the National League’s fate: Astros vs. Cubs.

Dear God, I really need your help on this one.

Wanting to have nothing to do with the Astros in the postseason, I found myself rooting – verbally, no less – for the Cubs, a team I’ve long been taught to associate with everything evil and wrong in the world. Fearing the baseball Gods might strike me dead instantaneously, I quickly kept the cheering to myself.

The Astros are made in the increasingly typical wild-card-turned-World Series champions form. They sport three dominant starting pitchers and just enough pop to fuel an offense. The kind of team you don’t want to run across in the postseason.

So when the Astros jumped out early, it wasn’t looking good for the Phillies. I searched frantically for the Lord’s Prayer as the Cubs continued to put up zeros on the scoreboard.

The Cubs responded to my pleadings by taking the lead in the sixth, inching closer to that coveted Monday playoff. With Cleveland’s loss, the Cubs became my last hope. I clasped my hands together and prayed. Please forgive me Cardinals, for I know not what I do.

I switched quickly to check up on the Phillies, who were manhandling the Nationals with less than an inning to play. Could the stars align? Could this be my day?

My questions were quickly answered, as the Astros retook the lead shortly after. I watched helplessly as the innings went by too quickly, knowing that the ninth is Brad Lidge’s territory.

Lidge is the reason hitters don’t sleep at night. He’s the bloodthirsty rabbit that guards the cave entrance: he may look harmless, but he’s vicious. And with a two-run lead, he may be the end of the road for my hopes.

The Cubs put up a fight. One base hit, an error and a groundout later, the Cubs had two base runners in scoring position.

Like most Cubs fans, I never thought the day would come in my lifetime when I’d have to put any sort of faith in Jose Macias. But here I was, faith and all, hoping Macias could find some way to hit the unhittable. He couldn’t.

In the end, it wasn’t meant to be. All the hope, faith and rooting went unanswered. Suddenly, a revelation occurred. I could see the light.

Dear God, thank you for suicide squeezes, hit-and-runs and perfect relay throws. Most of all, thank you for not making me a Cubs fan.