It’s September — that time of year when the stifling heat of an Iowa summer gives way to the crisp chill of glorious fall.

Football is in full swing, but America’s pastime — baseball — is heading for the homestretch. That’s right, it’s time for the playoffs!

Yeah, you can diss baseball on the grounds of commissioner-for-life Bud Selig or realignment or the designated hitter, but you just can’t deny the magic of the postseason.

And to make it even better, I’ve got tickets this year. If my beloved Cleveland Indians win their division, I’m there for game four of the division series!

My dad spent four hours dialing and redialing Ticketmaster in Cleveland, and he finally got through — what a guy. Dad got us all tickets: my parents, my brother, my aunt and my grandparents.

So we’re flying out there on October 4 to continue a family tradition — cheering on the Tribe.

Way back in 1948, my great-grandpa, my grandpa and my grandma traveled the long road from northwest Iowa to Cleveland to watch “Rapid Robert” Feller and the Indians take on the Boston Braves.

It was storybook. Iowa farm boy pitching in the bigs, Iowa pilgrims coming to worship in the shrine known as Cleveland Municipal Stadium.

Only problem was, they didn’t have tickets. So when they found no tickets available from scalpers, my great-grandpa marched up to the ticket office.

“I brought my family 1,000 miles to see Bobby Feller pitch,” he told them in his best authoritative Dutchman voice.

When the Indians’ employees realized the Iowa entourage was sans tickets, they took care of it and let them in. My grandpa still reminisces about it today.

So I’m going this year — me in the middle of 42,000 screaming Indians fans. I can’t wait.

What will it be this year: will my Tribe choke in the first round like last year or reach the World Series like in 1995?

Ah, the Fall Classic. It has an almost mystical allure — two teams, seven games, winners drink champagne (and douse Tim McCarver, if you’re Deion Sanders) and losers go home with thoughts of what might have been.

Who can forget Bill Mazeroski’s home run to win the 1957 Series? Or Kirk Gibson limping around the bases after a dramatic round-tripper in 1990?

Or Joe Carter’s three-run jack off Mitch Williams to win it for the Blue Jays in 1993?

There are so many memories for me.

Baseball was the only thing I could stay up past bedtime to watch, and my dad would always say, “Go to bed after this hitter,” but then there would be a rally, and I would get to put off sleep a little longer.

One of my favorites came two years ago, when the Tribe battled the Mariners in the ALCS.

It was Game Six, and the “Big Unit,” Randy Johnson, was on the hill for Seattle.

The Indians were down in the count, but Johnson finally tired and Carlos Baerga launched a drive to deep right-center that sailed over the wall.

My dad and I almost put a hole in the floor as we rejoiced over the win. The Indians were going to the World Series for the first time since 1954!

So take part in a grand American tradition this fall and watch a postseason game.

You might see Ken Griffey Jr. and his sweet swing or Jim Thome’s powerful stroke or Greg Maddux’s pinpoint control.

And if you watch carefully, you might even see the boyish joy on the faces of those who play The Game — baseball.

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