The 2016 World Series is a sentimentalist’s dream if there ever was one. The matchup pairs two perpetually downtrodden teams – the Cleveland Indians, who haven’t hoisted the trophy since the Truman administration, and the Chicago Cubs, the famously star-crossed franchise that last brought home a title the year the Model T was introduced.

The teams have gone a combined 179 years without reaching the pinnacle of America’s pastime, and their fans are widely regarded as among the most long-suffering in all of sports. And yet, I’m nothing if not envious.

It’s fair to wonder why I’d envy fans who are old enough that their only memories of real success are being shared over McDonald’s free senior coffee refills; but the reason is simple. Whichever team emerges victorious, it’s probably, almost definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, just never ever going to be this good again.

I know because I’ve been there. I grew up in New England as a Boston Red Sox fan. I was not quite two years old during the 1986 Series, but I didn’t need to be able to color inside the lines to know Buckner and Dent were dirty words in my house. I was 19 when Papi, Pedro and company finally vanquished the Yankees and put the curse to rest, but I felt the weight of all 86 years lifted with the final out in St. Louis.

I shared the victory not just with my fellow Red Sox fans, but with more or less everyone — except Yankee fans. A classic worst-to-first, rags-to-riches story is tough for anyone to resist, and decades of lovable loser goodwill – watered periodically with a generous helping of tears – will earn you a whole lot of sympathy points. “I can’t believe you stuck with them!” they’ll say. “Yes, this speaks to my strength of character and undying loyalty,” you will quietly repeat to yourself.

Savor these times. Because after the confetti has been swept up, an ugly truth awaits. Your promising core of players is suddenly launched into stardom, making the team media darlings who eat up oversized portion of ESPN airtime. A legion of Johnny-come-latelies who couldn’t tell Sammy Sosa from Sammy Hagar will suddenly profess their lifelong allegiance to the team to anyone willing to listen. Continued success on the field only makes it worse, and soon you’ll be mentioned in the same breath as other deplorables like Cardinals and Yankees fans. I shudder at the thought – you should too.

All that said, it’s worth it. The hate is easy to embrace once you’re freed from the years of torment and disappointment that used to define your devotion. All I’m saying is, you only get one first. The Red Sox have treated me to a total of three championships over the last 12 years, and I wouldn’t trade them, but nothing will touch the feeling of finally getting over that hump after so many years. The exhilaration of victory after defeat became routine, the shedding of an onerous “loser” identity, a sense of pride after so much embarrassment – it’s the stuff that brings neighbors, generations and entire cities together. None of that is possible without the anguish that came before.

Enjoy it.