New York is a baseball town. The NFL has been subsumed. Stroll around the five boroughs and witness the blue-and-orange, once donned sheepishly or with dour fatalism, become Hope personified. Consider Grimace, OMG, Hawk Tuah, Polar Bear’s playoff pumpkin, and Mr. Smile, with each parabolic shot into the night making plain his case for Cooperstown. These Mets are four games away from the World Series and it can feel like, on yet another playoff weekend, there is nothing to keep them from barreling there. The bars and restaurants are humming with Mets talk. There are generations who have barely known this feeling and they will revel in it for as long as the spirit is willing.
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