AMAZIN':

Fifty-one years later, it might still be the greatest baseball story ever told. The Miracle Mets of 1969, never having finished above .500, going from ninth place in 1968 to the World Series title. The hapless, bumbling, laughingstock New York Mets, most famous for the time Marv Throneberry hit an apparent game-winning triple only to have missed first base, with the Mets instead losing the game. Those luckless, atrocious Mets, whom Casey Stengel explained had selected a certain catcher in the expansion draft because they needed somebody to prevent the ball from rolling to the backstop.

That's how the Mets were born and, boy, were they bad. They lost 120 games that first season in 1962 and followed up with seasons of 111, 109 and 112 losses. In 1966, they climbed out of last place for the first time -- all the way up from 10th place to ninth. The fans in Queens loved them nonetheless. Even though the Mets lost 95 games that year, they finished second in the major leagues in attendance.

The transformation from lovable losers to champions began in 1967. It began with Tom Seaver.

He won 311 games. Three Cy Youngs. He went to the Hall of Fame. He became baseball royalty.

More, way more, he was the best player on the only favorite team I'd ever have.

When the Sunday newspaper came with one of those iron-on decals, and this week it was him, and I'd come downstairs with the biggest white T-shirt I could find, thinking that was the one I'd grow out of last, and then stand next to the ironing board in my Toughskins while my mom waited for the iron to -- click-click-click -- warm. When I'd sit out in the bleachers and there he was, tiny, but there he was, and then everyone around me was just as taken as I was, and it was OK to be a Mets fan. When in the pictures in the paper he was so young and seemed so happy, always caught laughing, like there was nothing to worry about, that he'd be fine, that the Mets would be fine, that I could sleep soundly under his image on the wall.

I don't know how you're supposed to replace that in your soul. Fifty years later, he's what the game looks like for me on its best days. Not because he had a low ERA. Not because he was a great pitcher and one of the best ever. But because there are moments on those best days for baseball, no matter who you are or how long you've been watching, no matter how hardened you've grown, that you wholly believe in. Mike Trout against a fastball. Max Scherzer on a hot night in late September. Joey Votto at 0-and-2. Mookie Betts getting his legs under him with a man at third base. Fernando Tatis Jr. from the hole.

If Tom Seaver and a bunch of other guys (I could give you all of their names) can win a World Series and steal a 7-year-old's heart forever, then what else could you believe in?

Just about anything.

Yeah, your team picks you. You grow old with any luck. And then one night you say goodbye. And thanks.

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