Let’s face it: being a Mets fan isn’t just a hobby. It’s a lifestyle, a spiritual journey, a personality trait, and a slow-burn emotional endurance test that builds character—whether you want it to or not.
Here are 50 things I’ve learned from three decades of orange-and-blue devotion, humiliation, and irrational optimism:
1. Hope is a renewable resource. No matter how many times it dies, it grows back in spring training.
2. The phrase “Ya Gotta Believe” is less a rallying cry and more a coping mechanism.
3. Character is built one blown save at a time.
4. You can, in fact, experience all five stages of grief during a single ninth inning.
5. There’s a difference between “losing” and “Mets-ing it.”
6. The word “rebuild” is code for “see you in five years, maybe.”
7. Watching other teams’ fans celebrate is a unique kind of masochism I’ve learned to enjoy.
8. Trusting the process is easier when you don’t know what the process is.
9. I’ve aged in dog years thanks to bullpen meltdowns.
10. Mets therapy should be covered by insurance.
11. I know what it feels like to be cautiously optimistic and wildly paranoid at the same time.
12. There’s always a guy named “Luis” or “Dom” or “Wilmer” that steals your heart, then gets traded.
13. The Wilpons taught me patience. Steve Cohen taught me how to almost trust again.
14. Citi Field is beautiful, especially when it’s half full and no one can see your tears.
15. Lactose intolerance doesn’t exist when you are eating your way through Citi Field.
16. Every Mets season starts with “This could be our year” and ends with “Why do I do this to myself?”
17. I’ve developed Jedi-level skills at predicting when the wheels will fall off.
18. I’ve mastered the art of the sarcastic clap.
19. I now understand the true meaning of “it’s not the despair, it’s the hope.”
20. I’ve experienced every flavor of loss: walk-off, blown lead, 16-inning collapse, “run out of position players,” and the dreaded rain-delay heartbreak.
21. I know better than to look directly at the standings in August.
22. I’ve watched Jacob deGrom pitch eight scoreless innings only to lose 1-0 more times than I care to admit.
23. Even our no-hitters come with asterisks and nervous sweating.
24. The “7 Line Army” is a support group disguised as superfans.
25. Every Mets fan has a “Where were you during Game 6 in ‘86?” story—even if they were in the womb.
26. Bobby Bonilla Day is a national holiday of emotional damage.
27. The team finds newer, more creative ways to break your heart every season. It’s almost impressive.
28. Being a Mets fan is like being in a toxic relationship you can’t quit. But you still buy the merch.
29. I’ve screamed “WHY IS HE STILL IN THE GAME?!” at the TV so many times it echoes in my dreams.
30. I can identify trauma bonding in other Mets fans instantly.
31. I’ve memorized the exact pace and tone of Gary Cohen’s “and it’s outta here!”
32. Keith Hernandez’s commentary is half baseball, half existential crisis.
33. Every walk-off win feels like a personal reward for surviving the past 162 games.
34. No lead is ever safe. Ever. Not even a 10-run lead. In the 9th. With two outs.
35. I’ve come to accept that the Marlins will randomly destroy our playoff hopes once every three years.
36. There’s always that one random journeyman who becomes the unlikely MVP of the season (hello, Ty Wigginton).
37. Mike Piazza’s home run after 9/11 made me cry like a baby. Still does.
38. I’ve seen so many hamstring injuries I now self-diagnose my own.
39. Somehow, we always get the weirdest injuries. “Slipped in dugout,” “tripped over luggage,” “punched locker.”
40. Citi Field Shake Shack burgers are the only consistent highlight some seasons.
41. Being swept by the Braves should qualify for hazard pay.
42. I know how to calculate “games back” in my head by June.
43. The phrase “meaningful September baseball” is both a dream and a trigger.
44. Every year I say I’m done. Every spring, I’m not.
45. Watching our prospects flourish elsewhere is a special pain. (Hi, Justin Turner.)
46. There’s something pure about watching a team collapse right when expectations are highest. Like performance art.
47. I’ve accepted that the Phillies will always find a way to annoy me.
48. Being a Mets fan means embracing the chaos. You either lean in or get steamrolled.
49. The miracle of 1969 and the chaos of 1986 live rent-free in my head.
50. Despite it all, I’ll be here next season. Hat on, heart open, expectations dangerously high.
Being a Mets fan has taught me more about resilience than any motivational book or TED Talk ever could. If you can survive the bullpen collapses, the playoff teases, the ownership changes, and Bobby Bonilla Day every single year, you can survive anything.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to check the Wild Card standings and mentally prepare for disappointment. Again.