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I was 30 years old when the Mets finally reached the World Series in 1986, and I knew someone with season seats. So he had something I needed real bad.

Tickets.

We had fallen out of touch, but in such a situation I would not allow that to stand in my way. I was a grown man, as was he, and I decided to ring his doorbell and plead my case, adult to adult. In a mature manner.

So that is what I did. When he opened the door, he found me standing there, with my adorable three year old son standing in front of me.

“I’m offering you my first born male child for World Series tickets,” I pleaded, gently nudging my little three year old boy forward. “Please!”

Thankfully, he didn’t accept my offering, but he did agree to sell me a ticket so I could accompany him to Game 7.

Game 7! The Holy Grail.

Now I just had to hope there would be a Game 7. And that the Mets would win it.

Two weeks later, after a grueling playoff series against the Houston Astros, the Mets were trailing the Boston Red Sox 3 games to 2 in the World Series. Things were looking bleak.

The (hopefully) penultimate contest was held on a Saturday night; the same night as my boss’s daughter’s wedding. I arrived with a pocketful of quarters, and hit the lobby payphone every 15 minutes to call ‘Sports Phone’ for game updates.

That’s right: Sports Phone. It was the only way to stay in the loop back in ancient times. You would call, and get a 60 second recording of the scores of all the games being played that day. It would update every 10 minutes.

It was considered cutting edge.

Down two runs in extra innings, I lost all hope, and reluctantly returned to the dance floor.

I soon heard a few guests being rather loud, and turned to see a half dozen men crowded around a table. Naturally, I immediately ditched my wife and strolled over to see what was happening.

A fellow seated at the table had one of the new miniature Sony TVs I had heard about. Three and a half inch screen, black and white, grainy picture. Battery operated, so you didn’t even have to plug it in! A technological miracle.

It was the first of two miracles I was to witness that night.

He had the game on. There were two men out and nobody on base, with two strikes separating the Mets and their legions of fans from a nightmarish winter.

That’s when the Mets, as we all now know, got a hit. Then another. And another. Then a very fortunate fielding error to score the most unlikely of winning runs.

The place went nuts; everyone but the bride was very excited (she was rather resentful at having the spotlight shift away from her). But I couldn’t waste any time dancing; with one quarter remaining in my pocket, I returned to the lobby and closed the telephone booth’s accordion door behind me.

My mother had to be told. Because I knew there was no way she could have sat through that game.

“I just can’t take it,” she always told me. “The pressure is too much for me. I can only watch when they’re winning.”

My Mom was a long suffering Brooklyn Dodger fan. She sat in Ebbets Field during the 1930s and 40s, watching her team disappoint her again and again.

And just two weeks earlier, I had taken her to a playoff game against the Astros. The Mets trailed for the entire the game.

“Why did you bring me?”

“I can’t take it! They can’t win. Let’s go home.”

“They aren’t even trying. Let’s go.”

Just a few of the things she said to me that day. She was so upset.

She changed her tune when the Mets won the game with a walk-off home run. Over 55,000 people were going insane, but no one more-so than my Mother. “AaaaaahhhhhhiiWOW!” was what I think she said, as she jumped up and down and repeatedly slapped me.

So I dropped the quarter and dialed. She answered tentatively, knowing there were only two reasons for a phone call so late at night: either someone had died, or been born. News that was either absolutely horrible or unbelievably wonderful awaited her on the other end of that line.

I delivered the latter, and we both screamed our heads off.

And so, after a one day delay due to rain, I got to go to Game 7. Section 1, Mezzanine. Above and behind home plate. And see my team come from behind late in the game to become World Series Champions. And I got to scream my head off again.

And that is why, through all the lost seasons and terrible games in the ensuing 40 years, I could never bring myself to complain about my preference in baseball teams. Because how many times does a fan get to see what I saw?

And I’m especially happy my friend didn’t take me up on my offer, because now that little boy has grown up, and goes to the games with his little boys. And he calls me after miraculous victories.

Because I just can’t take it.