Well, my Indian summer is over, as if it hadn’t been quashed already by the four inches of snow last weekend. My beloved Tribe battled bravely, providing enjoyment for their fans across the nation (one might even call it a pow-wow), but in the end, it was the Marlins in seven.

Still, I have tons of memories from the 1997 postseason.

First, my journey to Cleveland for Game 4 of the Division Series. What a game! The air was filled with the scent of beer, the screams of the fans and the crack of the bat. Two big cracks, as it turned out.

Home runs by David Justice and — guess who? — Sandy Alomar (he just can’t stop being a hero) tied it at 2-2. And in the bottom of the ninth, with the din of the crowd at a mind-numbing level, Marquis Grissom scored on an Omar Vizquel single.

Jacobs Field exploded into a cacophony of rock music, fireworks, clapping and yelling. I hugged my dad, hugged my brother, celebrated with the people behind me. Truth be told, I darn near cried.

Game 5 was special, too. A bunch of friends gathered in my dorm room to carry on a truly American tradition — baseball in October. After the win, I donned my war paint for the next round of the playoffs. (I really did: my toenails, painted that night, still say “GO TRIBE” in gray, blue and red.)

I was so excited after the last out was recorded, I jumped about two feet in the air. Only one problem — I was running through my door at the time, and I cut my head open. Dumb. But it didn’t matter because the Indians were still alive.

On to the LCS (League Championship Series, for those who chose sitcoms over strikeouts during the past few weeks).

I’ll never forget the night of Game 2. I didn’t get to see any of the game (except on Sportscenter, of course). But what I will remember is overhearing Tim McCarver’s voice as I walked down the halls of Friley to visit a friend.

My ears perked up as the joyous words “comeback,” “Grissom” and “three-run homer” floated out someone’s door.

They won that one, and then the next two, on some of the weirdest plays I have ever seen. First there was the pseudo-suicide squeeze play, when the normally reliable Omar Vizquel whiffed, but Orioles catcher Lenny Webster muffed the ball and allowed Marquis Grissom to dash home.

I got to watch that one with my girlfriend and her dad — which, while not nearly as awesome as baseball with my dad, was still great.

Then, there was “The Wild Pitch” (hey, if John Elway can kill Cleveland fans with “The Drive,” we can have this one). Two runs scored on one errant Arthur Rhodes slider, a play that concluded with about 10 players sprawled in the dirt around home plate.

Whew! I thought it couldn’t get any better. But in Game 6, last-minute replacement Tony Fernandez, hitting something like .150 from the left side, jacked a home run (you guessed it, left-handed) to win the game — and the series — in the 11th inning.

And the World Series against the Fish and their un-baseball-like video magnate/owner Wayne Huizenga. It didn’t end the right way, but hey, my team was in it, and I was in heaven.

So I wait with my glove oiled and my shoes polished until next season. Thanks to all my friends with whom I got to spend a wonderful postseason — it was unforgettable.

Luke De Koster is a sophomore in journalism and mass communication and history from Hull.