About an hour before I turned on the television for ESPN’s Opening Night edition of Sunday Night Baseball, I felt an all too familiar tightness in my stomach. My Metsies were about to face their latest demons, aka Eric Hosmer and the rest of the Kansas City Royals, who had defeated the Mets in five games during the World Series last fall. Not that I had expected the Mets to win; no one had picked the Mets to win the NL Pennant for 2015, and most fans didn’t imagine they would even have a winning season (90-72, thanks in large part to the late season acquisition of Yoenis Céspedes and his colorful rallykeet).

But I am nothing if not faithful, and I love my team. I love the SNY broadcasters (Gary Cohen, Ron Darling, and Keith Hernandez) , and I love Howie Rose, who calls for WWOR. Thanks to modern technology and my financial priorities, I barely miss an inning since my MLB.TV subscription delivers almost every game on TV, as well as all of my devices.

My son and I developed a passion for baseball at the same time. In 1986, we moved from New York to Massachusetts, just in time for the World Series between the Mets and the Red Sox (think Bill Buckner, Game 6). I had watched very little baseball prior to this, but as a teacher in a large, public, blue-collar high school, I had to get into it. Two-year-old Misha became enamored of #18 (what child wouldn’t love someone named Strawberry?) and I quickly began what would become a decades’ long fascination with Keith Hernandez (with mustache, thank you very much).

My father, now of blessed memory, was ecstatic. Having unsuccessfully (anti-Semitism?) tried out as a pitcher for five major league teams, he became a furrier by day and dreamed, night after night, about tossing a perfecto. One of my sweetest memories is of going to Shea with my dad and Misha, arriving a couple of hours early so that we could watch the Mets players arrive. I flagged down John Franco, who had attended the same high school (Lafayette) as my parents, albeit decades later. As he rolled down his car window and heard that my dad was a passionate fan, the leftie relief pitcher graciously and patiently took some time to chat with my father.

Last spring, as I battled fear, anxiety, and darkness after Peter (z”l) died, baseball arrived in my living room with a flourish and fanfare like never before. I watched 150+ regular season Mets games, and cheered on the Giants and Athletics as well. The postseason run for the Mets helped me keep up my spirits as the light diminished and the days grew unbearably shorter. Friends and family joined me for many playoff games (I watched every single one, some even twice!)  and optimism for my team renewed my capacity for hopefulness in general.

Despite the Mets’ loss in the World Series, I felt proud of my team and was delighted with their accomplishments in 2015. And of course, like all true fans, I went to bed, after the final out in Game 5, thinking, “There’s always next year.”

Play ball!