A complex stew of factors combined to result in the creation of this specific NFL news outlet, which launched 25 years ago as of November 1. A reader reminded me of one of the specific dominoes that fell the right way a little while ago.

As a kid, I was a baseball fan before becoming a football fan. Growing up 60 miles from Pittsburgh, I loved the Pirates. I studied the box scores in the newspaper every day. I’d listen to games on the radio with my grandfather, who used a Tupperware container as a Mail Pouch spittoon. He often missed the target.

The 1979 “We Are Family” Pirates felt like a magical, once-in-a-lifetime experience. (Little did I know that it was.)

The ‘80s weren’t great (the low point was 1985, and a record of 57-104). By the end of the decade, however, the pieces were in place for three straight National League East titles.

The 1990 NLCS felt like found money. Lose 4-2 to the Reds? Fine. Next year will be the year. Blowing a 3-2 lead to the Braves in the 1991 NLCS hurt.

But that was just the appetizer.

The 1992 NLCS became the lowest point possible. My wife (two years before we got hitched) and I went to multiple games. We were there the night Deion Sanders showed up after playing for the Falcons, but didn’t get into the game. Down 3-1 in the series, the Pirates won that night (our seats in the upper deck at Three Rivers were so bad that we couldn’t see the ball), and two nights later the Pirates forced a seventh game.

Game 7 happened 34 years ago today. We watched the game at her apartment in Pittsburgh. I was hobbling around on a hamstring that I’d torn, and then re-torn because I was too stubborn to let it heal.

Everything was going smoothly for the Pirates. They led, 2-0, entering the bottom of the ninth. Three outs to the World Series.

When the Braves scored a run on a sacrifice fly, I shrugged. It’s fine, 2-1 is fine. This is fine. Only two outs to go.

Brian Hunter popped to shallow centerfield. One out to go. I still remember walking into the kitchen at her apartment and peering over the top of the railing above the sink while leaning against the counter and holding my breath as Francisco Cabrera came to the plate with the bases loaded and two outs. Former Pirates first baseman Sid Bream was on second; he wouldn’t score on a single. Extra innings would be fine. This is fine.

And then it happened. Routine single to left. OK, extra innings. Fine. But wait. What the hell? They sent Bream? Surely, Barry Bonds will nail him at home.

The throw from Bonds was off the line and the tag from Mike LaValliere wasn’t in time and I looked down at the fake granite countertop and I said, “They won’t be good again for at least 20 years. I’m done.”

And that’s when I forgot about baseball and became even more focused on football. Nine years and 18 days later, the flip was switched on ProFootballTalk.com, and here we are.

So, thanks, Francisco and Sid — and Barry. If the Pirates had won that game and advanced to the World Series, I may have never made the NFL the center of my sports universe. And I wouldn’t be doing what I’ve been doing for as long as I’ve been doing it.

Still, it continues to sting. Thirty-four years to the day later.