I’ll post my usual assemblage of thoughts about the state of the world on Thursday.

But as a devoted fan of the New York Mets, I feel compelled to write a few words about being a devoted fan of the New York Mets.

I haven’t always been a devoted fan of the New York Mets (OK, I’ll stop with the ‘devoted’ stuff). My parents bonded over their love of the other team in town, the one with all the prominent Italian-Americans such as Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra and Phil Rizzuto. 

So I had that team’s swag when I was 7, long before anyone knew about team swag.

My mother’s father was a fan of the other New York team. But he and, because I admired my grandfather so much, I dumped them in late 1964 when they fired Berra as manager after losing the World Series in seven games.

The Mets built their new home, Shea Stadium, less than two miles from my childhood home. They weren’t an easy team to adopt, since they were bad. Notoriously, comically bad.

But Grandpa and I stuck with the Mets. We were rewarded five years later when they shocked the world and went from godawful to World Series champions. 

I stuck with them until 1977, when they unceremoniously dumped their greatest-ever player, Tom Seaver. Back to Brand X I went, watching them win two Series.

Then, in 1985, Berra – in his second time around as their manager – got fired again by the team’s impetuous, boorish owner. 

It was back to the Mets again. And because I feared that I showed signs of being one of the things I hate most – a front-runner – I vowed to stay true to the Orange and Blue.

That has not been the easiest thing to do.

After proving me right in 1986 with their second Series win, they have failed to achieve another one.

They had great chances several times, including a World Series against that other team in 2000. The closest they’ve come is avoiding a sweep, twice.

In the process of staying true to the Mets and cheering them all the damn time, I did a godawful, terrible thing:

I helped turn my kids into Mets fans, too.

For the more than 30 years of both their lives, they have never had the opportunity to see the Mets be the last team standing. To see them ride through New York’s Canyon of Heroes with the city’s denizens hurling garbage at them, because there’s no such thing as ticker tape in the 21st century.

My son actually works for them. He spent about 55 of his days or nights this season helping a pretty full Citi Field cheer for players who carry their hopes of glory for the franchise.

That faith was not rewarded yesterday. After compiling the best record in baseball through early June and holding a playoff spot until the 160th game of the 162-game season, the Mets ended 2025 failing to make the postseason.

It’s not the first time they faltered on the last day of the regular season. It’s not even the second. Three times this century, they’ve been on the outside of glory after failing miserably in the final game. This despite having a payroll something around $340 million, including more than $50 million for outfielder Juan Soto in the first of a 15-year contract.

It might be all right if I suffered these defeats by myself.

But I don’t.

When they were in elementary school, they heard the taunts of the other team’s fans. When the Mets lost the World Series to the other team, the school held a parade to celebrate. I was incensed – but somehow not surprised – that the principal could be that insensitive.

But like me, they’ve stuck with the Mets. We go to games together, drag their Mom to the ballpark on occasion, have converted my daughter’s wife and are working on my son’s girlfriend.

I want so very badly for the Mets to win a World Series before I pass from this life, so I can celebrate with my family and revel in the reflected glory. I would even just like not to have to listen to fans of other teams – and THAT other team – make snide remarks about they’re cheering for active teams in October and we’re not.

But I’m not as despondent as I thought I’d be when this collapse appeared imminent. I got to see 25 Mets games in 2025 and created memories with the people I love. We got to cheer and enjoy some special moments. 

It’s nice to win – and it hurts a lot to lose. But baseball has meant joy, excitement and – most importantly – family for 71 years.

I’ll be back. We’ll get ‘em next year. 

And if your team is in the postseason, congratulations. Enjoy this moment.

Even if you root for that other team.