For all its managerial misfirings and ridiculous bullpen moves, Cubs-Indians was the best Game Seven I can recall seeing. There have been 38 deciding Game Sevens in the World Series. The crème de la crème begins with a Game Eight, due to a tie, in 1912 (Red Sox over Giants in extras), 1924 (Senators over Giants in extras), 1926 (Cardinals over Yankees), 1955 (Brooklyn over Yanks. At last.), 1960 (Mazeroski HR sends Bucs over Yanks), 1964 (Cards beat Yanks in their last WS for like ever—or 12 years for those of you who can only count rings), 1971 (Pirates over Orioles by a run in the Roberto Series), 1972 (Hairs 3, Squares 2), 1975 (Reds over Red Sox in my first World Series and still maybe best I have seen), 1982 (Keith comes through for Cardinals over Brewers), 1986 (Keith comes through again. Natch.), 1991 (Twins over Braves in maybe the best Game Seven pitching duel ever), 1997 (another really touch one, Cleveland), 2001 (Diamondbacks over Yankees with the best bloop ever), and 2014 (Bumgarner 3, Royals 2).

Just the idea of Cubs and Indians playing for all the marbles, that something’s got to give with the BS curses, should have had you tuning in. And Game Seven drew the most eyeballs for a World Series game since 1991 (though this could be be bad because it might only encourage Fox to keep carrying baseball and hiding the playoffs from large swaths of the country without top tier cable). But it was worth the exhaustion.

For all my Chicago friends, especially my Cubs by the Numbers co-authors, Al Yellon and Kasey Ignarski, who rarely miss a game at Wrigley, congratulations. They each have attended thousands of games there and have seen and put up with a lot crap through the years. As much as I think I know about baseball, I have no idea how good this feels for them. The one time I attended a Mets game with  Al, in 2009 at Citi Field, he stopped me in my tracks when I complained about the lousy team the Mets had that year. “Listen, your team has two world championships in your lifetime. I just hope for one in mine.” Well earned.

Best stadium, best celebrity fan (Bill Murray), and now best team. That’s some hat trick. Hats off.

It was 30 years ago that the Mets won the world championship. I almost did something for the site on the 30th anniversary of Game Six, but I fought the urge. To me, Game Six means nothing without Game Seven. Without fulfilling the destiny, the glory of Game Six is the Carlton Fisk home run in the 1975 World Series: a tremendous moment, but invariably anticlimactic because Boston blew a 3-0 lead in Game Seven in ’75. And the Red Sox blew a 3-0 lead in Game Seven in 1986.

Many people forget that the Mets were down by three runs in the sixth inning and were dominated by Bruce Hurst in the deciding game, who’d already beaten them twice in the Series. Then in the span of just over a dozen pitches, the Mets rallied to tie the game. Keith Hernandez’s two-run single to put the Mets on the board may be the biggest hit of his Mets career. And during our interviews for One-Year Dynasty, Keith still couldn’t believe that it was almost the exact same situation as Game Seven in the 1982 World Series, when Keith the Cardinal got the big hit with his team trailing the Brewers in the deciding game. “I just did what I always did in a tight situation,” he said, “which is take a couple of deep breaths and count to ten, slow everything down and get in the box. I mean you can’t run and hide. There I am. I’m either going to do it or I’m not.”

If he’d hit into a double play, the inning is over. Maybe Hurst pitches a complete game like he did in Game Five. Then there is no Curse of the Bambino and perhaps Boston has an even more inflated image. It’s possible. Hurst had already been voted Series MVP. But of course, Keith got the hit, Ray Knight got the Series MVP, and Hurst and the Red Sox got the short end of the stick. But who cares about them? It’s the Mets who have had to hold onto that moment, milk it, have people not yet born accept it as their team’s greatest moment. It was a superb moment. The team didn’t have staying power but the moment certainly did.

I still have a pennant from that season—as do the Mets—but all the swag I received at Christmas disappeared over time. And while I have bought a couple of Mets NL Champion shirts and Division Series shirts over the intervening three decades, I rarely wear them. I am holding out for the real thing. And I am going to make sure I don’t let it out of my sight. With the Mets you never know how long you’re going to have to make it last.

One of the tenets of being a diehard fan of a team is that you are rooting for that team, no matter what. If Damien Satan III was called up from the minors and got on base every time up, while at the same time All-Stars on your team’s rivals began dying, a hardcore fan might say that’s some extraordinary luck and change the subject to how cute Damien’s rottweiler is and how he helps the poor trade their souls for goods and services. As a Mets fan I have rooted for some loathsome characters and players I just did not like, only to cheer them without a second thought when they came through at a key—or even not so key—moment.

Postseason battles between other teams are a different matter. Most of the time, who cares who wins or who doesn’t? Unlike the Super Bowl, which is just a day (thankfully), sometimes you never really get behind either team and instead put much of your energy into devouring guacamole or your favorite intoxicant at the party spread before one team takes a 32-0 lead. But to watch the World Series—and what red-blooded baseball fan does not? (though if the Yankees are involved you do what you have to do)— is a four- to seven-night commitment. It’s hard to watch for that long while staying objective. Just ask Joe Buck! (And thank you, Fox, for finally deeming this round of baseball competition worthy of a channel not numbered in the 400s, where people staying in hotels or living within their means might have access.)

I used to pick my rooting interests before the World Series and stuck by them. Then the 1993 World Series happened. I have loved the Blue Jays since their first-ever game in 1977, played in a snowstorm, when I spent hours willing the broadcast beamed onto my black-and-white TV in New York by an ESPN that did not yet exist. The 1993 pennant winner was the Phillies, a team I have never liked since much of my baseball fan apprenticeship in the 1970s and early 1980s, was spent watching the Phillies serve as the boxing glove to the Mets’ punching bag. Yet there I was in October of ’93, rooting for the Phillies to come back on the Jays in the butt ugly 15-14 Game Four that Toronto held on to win. I was never so relieved in a non-Mets rooting/non-Yankees loathing postseason circumstance as when Joe Carter hit that walkoff home run, touched them all, and put an end to Philadelphia’s and my misery. I felt dirty when it was over. Or maybe that was the bender I was on from my high school reunion that weekend. But that is nothing compared to the impending benders throughout parts of the Midwest if either the Cubs or Indians take the title they have been cumulatively been waiting 174 seasons for.

The Cubs have not won since 1908. You may have heard this. Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown and Orval Overall won the four games against the Tigers, whom the Cubs had beaten the previous year for the world’s championship, as they possessively called it then. Three Finger and Overall each pitched complete games shutouts in the final two games of the World Series. The 2016 Cubs had that many complete-game shutouts all year. It was a different time, but as forever Cubs fan and forever funnyman Bill Murray said, most people don’t get what it’s like to root for a team that never wins. “It builds character.”

Cleveland fans would know all about that. Cleveland has not won the World Series since 1948, with a team managed by Lou Boudreau. The 30-year-old player-manager had come up with the first widely discussed shift for Ted Williams and Lou was 1948 AL MVP (when only one manager was honored by The Sporting News, Billy Meyer was named TSN Manager of the Year with Ralph Kiner’s ’48 Pirates). Boudreau did lead the league in WAR, which in 1948 he might have thought was a slight at being declared 4-F during World War II because of arthritic ankles.

There are the silly curses: Billy goats in Chicago, Rocky Colavito in Cleveland. There is the Midwestern sturdiness aspect. And there are the nicknames that are the last in a long line for these franchises. “Cubs” stuck as the name after the White Stockings, Colts, and Orphans came and went. Cleveland started with Blues and went with Bronchos (not sure of why it was spelled that way) and Naps (for the great Napoleon Lajoie, long forgotten despite his stellar name and game). “Indians” has been the name for more than a century, but I can’t say it’s right. Charles Bender was already a stellar member of the Philadelphia A’s for a decade and had long been known as “Chief” when “Indians” became the official name for Cleveland’s team. I’m sure he kept calling them “Cleveland” or “Naps,” just as he kept signing his name “Charles Bender” for autographs until the end of his life in the spring of 1954, a year after he was elected to the Hall of Fame. That the ’54 Tribe won an AL-record 111 games and were swept in the World Series is a coincidence, I’m sure.

I’m not here to talk about the team nickname. That it is offensive to a people that has so much dignity is enough for me. I will try avoiding using the word “Indians” here and in speech, but it will be difficult. You see, when I was in my back yard, throwing a ball in the air and hitting it, I made up not just a whole cast of teammates, but an entire  American League of fictional stars. (I picked the Indians for my fictional career because beiong on the Mets seemed too far-fetched.) And I was third baseman when the Indians finally won the World Series. This was in the 1970s, but given that I was 11 and 12 at the time, their championship was projected as around 1990. And now we’re 40 years past me teaching myself to switch-hit so I could be a switch-hitter in my pretend American League. And we’re 26 years past the projected date of that world championship. (By the way I hit the Series clinching inside-the-park homer, lefty, naturally—and don’t think the hair didn’t prick up on the back of my neck when Cleveland’s Tyler Naquin ended a game with a touch-’em-all home run earlier this year.

Just like I don’t summarily discount clutch hitting because the player at the plate believes it exists, I am not going to assume that because I may be OK with a nickname that the group it targets isn’t deeply affected. My family goes back far enough in this country that I am not sure if we are more German or Irish or Spanish or whatever. But whoever it was carrying my genes was a newcomer next to the natives. And they may be as insulted as they might be if Cleveland’s team was called Krauts or Micks or what have you.

But this is about taking sides in a ballgame. And I remain torn. I have numerous friends—and some relatives—who are Cubs fans. I have a new edition of a book on the Cubs I co-wrote that you can buy while supplies last. And they play in the best ballpark still in existence, though I have not been to Wrigley Field since it had its up-do.

On the other side, I know just one Indians fan, and the book I was paid to work on about the Indians is 20 years old and so long out of print I can’t even find a mention of it on the internet. Though I may have gone the other way on the nickname, I am not opposed to the ballclub. They pitch, they hit, they run, they win, they are not the Yankees.

But I am a prisoner, awaiting my heart to tap me mid-game and say who I am rooting for. A prisoner of baseball. And happily so.

Favorite Nonplaying Met has been a favorite noncrucial award doled out by yours truly dating all the way back to the early 1990s. It began as a way for me to subtly posit that I could be the manager if I had A. played minor league ball, B. endured 10,000 bus rides between Cedar Rapids and every Springfield ever made, C. knew what I was talking about, and D. had the power to make out a lineup.

So I pick out a player each year to be FNP Met. Maybe he is in the real manager’s doghouse, or maybe he is stuck behind someone I think he’s better than, or I am just using the power of what might have been to make my point. Sometimes, such as the rare case of Heath Bell, I was right (for a while, at least). But when you look at the long list of scrubinees and the many “they were Mets?,” you’ll see that every skipper from Bud Harrelson to Terry Collins might have known something. Past winners have included Chris Donnels, Todd Pratt, Dicky Gonzalez, Anthony Recker, Kirk Nieuwenhuis… you get the idea. Nick Evans was the only two-time winner, that says a lot about this award right off the bat. One of the first, if not the first FNP (even my memory gets fuzzy about something that was invented after about 10 beers) was Mackey Sasser. Mackey couldn’t throw but sure could hit; he can scout, too, giving the Mets the scoop on his former Wallace College player T.J. Rivera, who had been undrafted and now looks to be a start in at least one postseason game.

Last fall I was up to my ears in editing and updates and there really was no good choice because everyone played so well and just about the right amount, So after the postseason I went with Jose Uribe, who got a little forgotten after David Wright came back. Then Jose got hurt and didn’t play the last few weeks of the season. Sort of like Wilmer Flores now. My biggest beef about Jose’s playing time was how he was not chosen to be DH in the first two World Series games in Kansas City. When he pinch-hit in Game Three in Flushing, he looked plenty healthy as he rocketed an RBI single. And he didn’t play again. Uribe only played in every game during the curse-ending World Series titles by the White Sox and Giants. Surprised he wasn’t on the Royals roster the way they broke their own 30-year drought. Now the Mets’ drought has reached 30, you may have read about that.

Well, let’s give Terry Collins credit this year—and if T.C. gets ripped off for the Manager of the Year Award like he did last year, you’ll hear a distant upstate scream some time next month. Terry could have and maybe should have benched Curtis Granderson this summer, but despite sitting him for a brief time, he stuck with Grandy, who responded with 30 homers (his record-low 59 RBI for a 30-homer guy is not all his doing). Terry likewise stuck with Jay Bruce and it paid off in the crucial final week of the year. Asdrubel Cabrera went two months (and 32 at bats) between hits with a runner in scoring position. Nobody is complaining about that now.

Wilmer Flores saw more bench time than he should have—playing only against lefties for much of the year—but when he was injured and knocked out for the season in Atlanta, he was playing second base every day. Wish he was still available for October.

But it is October now and I am going to go with an FNP that as of this writing I am not sure is on the postseason roster. And I’m not even sure he deserves to be on it. But I am still picking Michael Conforto with an even more half-hearted vote than last year. I almost went with Brandon Nimmo for the award because he’s almost exclusively been a pinch hitter—and pretty good at that role—but Nimmo was not up for very long this season. Conforto was in New York enough to come to the plate 348 times—way more than any past FNP—but I am granting Michael dispensation for his long exile in the minors, especially for someone who looked so good last October and looked great making that sliding catch to clinch the 2015 postseason berth.

So come claim your prize, Conforto. And lay off those pitches in the dirt! I’m out on a limb for ya. Let’s go Mets!

Nothing makes me more nervous than the Mets in contention in the final week of the season. But this week, it really has taken a back seat to what happened in Miami.

I was traveling and did not tune into last Sunday’s 17-0 win over the Phillies until the final inning. A couple of times Howie Rose referred to the tragic death of Jose Fernandez. It did not seem real. The guy is 24. The guy is a star. The guy has a good shot of winning the Cy Young Award. Yes, all those things. Only in the past tense.

His death, along with two friends—one of whom he’d met for the first time that night—shocked the baseball world. But it has stunned Florida far more. I headed to South Florida the day after the news broke to visit my father. When I had booked the trip a few weeks earlier, it had not even occurred to me that the Mets would be in the area at the same time. I decided I’d sneak off one night to go to a game. When my Dad had an appointment Monday afternoon that did not require my assistance, I made a move south to Miami.

Outside the main gates of Marlins Park was a shrine begun the previous day, with flowers, posters, stuffed animals, and posters; even a Mets hat left as a salute. People stood quietly or took photographs somberly. Inside it was quiet, except for the sounds of batting practice: fellow Cuban Yoenis Cespedes, the leader of the Mets mourners for Jose, launching balls into the farthest reaches of the giant stadium.

I was walking around the stadium when I heard cheers. I did not know why. When I checked on the field, a player had just exited. And then it got loud again when another Marlin emerged before I could get a look. It was not until the Marlins took the field all together that the reason for the cheers became obvious: The Marlins were all wearing number 16. Fernandez’s number would never be worn again, but every member of the team wore it that night. Those were the only Fernandez jerseys to be had as there was not a piece of Fernandez memorabilia left at any concession stand, though there were fans all over the stadium wearing his jerseys and “Jose’s Heroes” shirts for the charity he put so much effort into. Even the “K” signs handed out were marked “Jose’s Heroes.”

Everything about the story was sad. Fernandez had been imprisoned as a teenager for repeatedly trying to flee Cuba. And then he tried again. While escaping, someone fell off the boat he was on, and he jumped into the ocean not knowing who he was risking his life to save. It was not until he swam to the person that he realized it was his mother. He was 15 years old. More of a man than most of us will ever be.

He wound up in Miami, graduated high school there, and was a first round pick in 2011 by the hometown Marlins. (The Mets selected Brandon Nimmo one pick earlier.) Fernandez debuted against the Mets at age 20 in April 2013. He was brilliant in that game, though he got a no decision. He never got a decision in any of his four career starts at Citi Field, even though his ERA at the place was 1.23. It was his lowest ERA for a stadium where he pitched more than once, including Marlins Park, where he had a 1.49 ERA. And a 29-2 record.

He was supposed to pitch against the Mets at Marlins Park on Monday. The Marlins had even moved him back a day after a brilliant eight-inning effort against the Nationals in his last start. More irony. If he’d been pitching Sunday, on Saturday night he would never have…

Let’s not go there. It will keep a body up nights, torments of what might have been. Jose Fernandez’s brilliant young career is now reduced to what might have been. How much he would have made in the open market in a couple of years? How much he might have taken to stay in Miami? How many awards he might have won? How many championships might he have been a part of? Instead it was how many smiles he brought to the faces of people in South Florida, the Cuban community, and all over the country.

I am a bit of a baseball curmudgeon, and sitting through the entirety of a Mets loss can make me angry about wasted time when I had so much I should have been doing instead. But Fernandez’s 1-0 win over Matt Harvey and the Mets in June in Miami was an absolute thing of beauty. I was lucky to have caught most of his starts against the Mets on TV, though I never got to see him in person. A guy having fun and being the best he could be. “The Bird” 40 years later with a shorter haircut and an even more tragic end.

I sat in the stands for the entire game Monday night, a bit perturbed that the Mets lost a game they needed badly, but the Marlins needed it more. You had to be a tougher guy than me not to feel for Dee Gordon crying as he rounded the bases, hitting his first home run of the year as the first batter in the wake of the tragedy. The entire lineup responded, battering Bartolo all over the place. And then they gathered on the mound after the game. It was inspirational. I think even the Mets were inspired by it, and they were lauded by the Marlins broadcasters, which includes old pal Al Leiter, the next two nights while I watched with my Dad from his home.

Family obligations kept me from seeing the 1986 reunion game or the Piazza number retirement, but I was glad to be in Miami to honor Jose Fernandez. Unlike the ’86 Mets or Piazza, Jose Fernandez will be remembered mostly for what might have been. And that is saddest of all.

I finally joined the 7 Line Army. Every time I looked to sign up in the past, either there was no availability or I wasn’t available. But all that changed for a September tilt on a Monday against the Braves. There were spots available and I grabbed two for me and my buddy Dave. It is getting even harder to get these seats as the 7 Line now offers tickets to all their events on a season’s pass (about 14 games). That is the definition of hardcore.

The 7 Line is full on hardcore. As the site says, “We are absolutely the largest organized supporters group in all of baseball.” And Fox in Los Angeles, of all places, had a great segment on them recently, with the bonus of Kevin Burkhardt, who was in Flushing when it all began, narrating. As great as last year was, if there was one thing I could change—besides the final outcome!—it would have been for Kevin Burkhardt and Bobby Ojeda to broadcast their insights as it all came together on SNY. But time marches on.

So does the 7 Line. It was four years ago, at the 50th birthday party for Faith and Fear in Flushing’s Greg Prince, that I got to talk to 7 Line General Darren Meenan about his burgeoning empire. It was just getting off the ground as an entity that sold T-shirts and we lamented how working in a world with a Mets focus can wear on your soul, if you’re lucky, and be like banging your head on an exposed piece of Shea Stadium pipe if you’re not so lucky. But Darren persevered and the following season he had his first 7 Line road outing to Wrigley Field. His group has not slowed down since, going to 15 other road games (five of them in the other country that is the Bronx).

The 7 Line experience began at McFadden’s with beer specials and some mixed camaraderie. I missed the cue for all to head in, but we got to our seats in the second-to-last row shortly before first pitch. With so many regulars, it is easy to follow along with the cheering for two strikes and then the “Strike You Out” chant when someone K’s. There were kids there and grown ups who are definitely kids, along with the requisite Mets yakking, beer drinking, food chomping, and battling for T-shirts that are invariably cannoned into the sea of 1,700 arms.

As for attendance, there were 859 of us in section 141 in centerfield. That is roughly 3 percent of the 29,665 in the house Monday. Someone sitting in the other 97 percent of the seats might have thought the place a little dead—especially after the rare dud tossed by Noah—but given that my ears are still ringing from the Thunder Sticks slammed together all around me, it seemed pretty lively to me.

At $45, it was just about the lowest price they had this year, which is comparable or cheaper than most seats you’ll find on Stub Hub (those seats don’t include a cool T-shirt). And it was worth every penny. When a guy with 7 Line seats in line during last year’s playoffs told me that there is a postseason lottery for people who have bought tickets during the year, I thought that was the final motivation for induction into this Army. Not that I expect any such windfall from the ballclub or the 7 Line because, let’s face it, this is still the Mets and panic and disappointment are the chief exports. But I will remember my first 7 Line foray for some time to come. Maybe I’ll even finagle myself onto a road trip some day.

Oddly, one of the things that sticks with me most was that amidst the cacophony, beer guzzling, and gob stuffing, someone behind me sneezed. In front of me came a very quick, “God bless you.” And God bless you 7 Line for doing the Lord’s work of Mets proselytizing, and doing it right.

# #

Not everyone can pursue a business model that is solely Mets, and I have two reissues of books I co-wrote that celebrates other teams. If I did not enjoy it, I would not do it. Cubs by the Numbers (with Al Yellon and Kasey Ignarski) is now out, as is Red Sox by the Numbers with Bill Nowlin. This is the summer of numerology, as Mets by the Numbers re-issue with Jon Springer is better than ever and more number-y!

I finally joined the 7 Line Army. Every time I looked to sign up in the past, either there was no availability or I wasn’t available. But all that changed for a September tilt on a Monday against the Braves. There were spots available and I grabbed two for me and my buddy Dave. It is getting even harder to get these seats as the 7 Line now offers tickets to all their events on a season’s pass (about 14 games). That is the definition of hardcore.

The 7 Line is full on hardcore. As the site says, “We are absolutely the largest organized supporters group in all of baseball.” And Fox in Los Angeles, of all places, had a great segment on them recently, with the bonus of Kevin Burkhardt, who was in Flushing when it all began, narrating. As great as last year was, if there was one thing I could change—besides the final outcome!—it would have been for Kevin Burkhardt and Bobby Ojeda to broadcast their insights as it all came together on SNY. But time marches on.

So does the 7 Line. It was four years ago, at the 50th birthday party for Faith and Fear in Flushing’s Greg Prince, that I got to talk to 7 Line General Darren Meenan about his burgeoning empire. It was just getting off the ground as an entity that sold T-shirts and we lamented how working in a world with a Mets focus can wear on your soul, if you’re lucky, and be like banging your head on an exposed piece of Shea Stadium pipe if you’re not so lucky. But Darren persevered and the following season he had his first 7 Line road outing to Wrigley Field. His group has not slowed down since, going to 15 other road games (five of them in the other country that is the Bronx).

The 7 Line experience began at McFadden’s with beer specials and some mixed camaraderie. I missed the cue for all to head in, but we got to our seats in the second-to-last row shortly before first pitch. With so many regulars, it is easy to follow along with the cheering for two strikes and then the “Strike You Out” chant when someone K’s. There were kids there and grown ups who are definitely kids, along with the requisite Mets yakking, beer drinking, food chomping, and battling for T-shirts that are invariably canned into the sea of 1,700 arms.

As for attendance, there were 859 of us in section 141 in centerfield. That is roughly 3 percent of the 29,665 in the house Monday. Someone sitting in the other 97 percent of the seats might have thought the place a little dead—especially after the rare dud tossed by Noah—but given that my ears are still ringing from the Thunder Sticks slammed together all around me, it seemed pretty lively to me.

At $45, it was just about the lowest price they had this year, which is comparable or cheaper than most seats you’ll find on Stub Hub (those seats don’t include a cool T-shirt). And it was worth every penny. When a guy with 7 Line seats in line during last year’s playoffs told me that there is a postseason lottery for people who have bought tickets during the year, I thought that was the final motivation for induction into this Army. Not that I expect any such windfall from the ballclub or the 7 Line because, let’s face it, this is still the Mets and panic and disappointment are the chief exports. But I will remember my first 7 Line foray for some time to come. Maybe I’ll even finagle myself onto a road trip some day.

Oddly, one of things that sticks with me most was that amidst the cacophony, beer guzzling, and gob stuffing, someone behind me sneezed. In front of me came a very quick, “God bless you.” And God bless you 7 Line for doing the Lord’s work of Mets proselytizing, and doing it right.

# #

Not everyone can pursue a business model that is solely Mets, and I have two reissues of books I co-wrote that celebrates other teams. If I did not enjoy it, I would not do it. Cubs by the Numbers (with Al Yellon and Kasey Ignarski) is now out, as is Red Sox by the Numbers with Bill Nowlin. This is the summer of numerology, as Mets by the Numbers re-issue with Jon Springer is better than ever and more number-y!

I am beyond thrilled with the turnout and reception for my Hall of Fame talk on August 27. The Bullpen Theater was packed like Shea Stadium was in 1986, with standing room only and people sitting on the stairs and in the hallway to hear me talk about One-Year Dynasty. And my son took some video. I’ll warn that it may be a little shaky now and again, but the audio is fine. I haven’t watched it all the way because, to quote a movie in heavy airplay on premium cable in 1986, Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, “I don’t have to watch it, Dottie, I lived it.”

But it was a great day, just like that late October Saturday in 1986. Thanks to the Hall of Fame and especially to Bruce Markusen and family for inviting me and for the great lunch afterward. Once again, thank you, Cooperstown. If you have never been there, you are really missing something. Including Mike Piazza’s plaque.

In 1986 my work about the New York Mets in One-Year Dynasty and working for the Houston Astros (or at least their minor league affiliate in Troy) would have put me in serious conflict. But 30 years later the ‘Stros are in the AL West, the Mets are sinking in the NL East, and they have about as much in common as their NY Penn affiliates cities in Brooklyn and Troy. Here is a piece that broadcast the other night on my life as an author/usher that aired on the CBS TV affiliate in Albany.

We filmed it last Wednesday, one of those days when nothing was going right. I got a late start after helping my daughter pack for school. My phone crapped in all things except its original use, but not before the GPS put me on the wrong side of Schenectady, leaving me and my poor directional skills to piece my way through traffic you wouldn’t believe for a town whose name you can’t spell. I almost lost my voice screaming at a virtual operator (no actual operators available, really?) to tell the station I’d be late. (Thanks to One-Year Dynasty photographer and fellow Valley Cat usher Dan Carubia for dealing with my hysterics over the phone.) When I got to the station 40 minutes late, we only had a few minutes before the set had to be cleared for the 5 o’clock news. Kelly O’Donnell makes it look like a walk in the park. And reporter Brittany Devane was still at Joseph Bruno Stadium filming highlights less than two hours before airtime (with a not-so-routine 40 minute drive back to the studio). They are young, smart, and way more professional than I’ll ever be.

Once upon a time, as a young reporter at a small paper, I used to resent how the TV people came in and took over a story I’d been working for weeks or months. But you know what? I never could have gotten all that together so fast. I would have filmed it this week for next week. Really appreciate their hard work and the great big plug for the show at Cooperstown on Saturday, August 27, at 1 p.m. I haven’t even started preparing yet for it, but after hanging with the WRGB crew, I’m a lot less anxious than I might have been. Kudos!