A memory I expect to retain to the grave, and possibly beyond: heading upstairs as an 11-year-old boy 40 years ago tonight, Oct. 25, 1986, with the Red Sox about to clinch their first World Series title since 1918 against the Mets. I didn’t need to see the final out. It was late and victory assured. That is, until the middle of my ascent when I heard my father begin to yell. “No! Dear God! No! No!”

Thus began the culminating moments of what every Mets fan simply refers to as Game 6. There have been bigger comebacks, but none have ever felt as improbable. The Mets looked to be as cooked as possible. Done. The fork had gone all the way through.

My pain, of course, has been assuaged in the decades since. Life happens, and one realizes that sports only mean so much, and what they mean most has to do with how........

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