I’m not your typical Mets fan. In fact, until about May, I didn’t watch baseball at all.

I mean, growing up in Brooklyn, it was easy to cheer the New York Mets on from the bleachers of my mind. As a twentysomething young woman, when the Mets won the World Series in 1986, I got caught up in the fever, fist pumping with the rest of the roaring crowd who went wild in Bay Ridge, jumping on cars, throwing confetti, and celebrating the victory with a ticker tape parade that brought screaming 2.2 million fans chanting “Let’s Go Mets!” to the Canyon of Heroes in lower Manhattan.

As a young professional, my company had box seats to the Mets and Yankees, so I saw my share of games, even a subway series.

And then, of course, I had a baby, a little boy, and I spent years on the T-ball and Little League circuit, packing snacks and orange slices, jumping up and down for my own little hero — and even once bribing the ice cream man to come back after practice so the kids wouldn’t go running toward his truck instead of home plate.

But still. Truth be told, baseball was never the biggest of deals. When I went to my first game in college — as young journalism students, we were studying sports writing and had to come up with an opening day story — I ended up outside eating a hot dog and interviewing the vendors on what was new and cute in jerseys that year.

I’d be hard-pressed to name even one player, much less watch a game, glued to the TV. I just didn’t get what the fuss was all about.

Until this year.

During a conversation one day, a longtime friend of mine mentioned his lifelong love of baseball, and started really explaining the game. Suddenly, hearing the passion behind every play, every run, the way baseball shaped lives and memories, I was intrigued. Suddenly, it was about more than confusing numbers and a game I really didn’t understand — it was about grit and determination, about dreams and the belief that on that ballfield, just maybe, anything can happen. And with a flash of quicksilver magic, sometimes does.

New York Mets rookie Pete Alonso. (Lisa Finn)

With the Mets still the one team that I’d ever called my own, even just a little, I started watching.

And then a rookie named Pete Alonso burst onto the screen and MLB canvas and started making America, a nation torn by acrimony and discord, believe in the healing magic and innocence a simple baseball game could bring to hurting hearts.

He caught my attention, that smiling young player who bounded around the bases with such seamless ease. Suddenly, I started rushing home at night not to watch HGTV or Lifetime movies, but to watch baseball. Baseball! Me!

Suddenly, I was slightly a fan. And then came the Home Run Derby, which fell on my birthday, and Pete Alonso suddenly went home $1 million richer, winning not only the derby but the hearts of fans young and old who found themselves rooting for the golden boy they knew, in their hearts, was destined to make history.

Pete Alonso wasn’t alone in making the season one to watch for Mets fans; I learned that quickly. The team this year was simply breathtaking. Just when everyone thought all hope was lost, they pulled off a summer-long winning streak that was nothing short of sheer magic. It was the season of dreams.

A season that little kids — and the little kids that live inside us all — would remember forever.

Fans clamor to get the attention of Pete Alonso. (Lisa Finn)

And when Pete Alonso struck hit that life-changing 53rd home run of the season at Citi Field Saturday night, breaking an MLB rookie record set in 2017 by Aaron Judge of the Yankees, he became the miracle every sports fan has hoped for since their very first game. As the crowd roared and jumped and confetti poured down, this fiftysomething once-soccer mom got so excited she dropped the iPhone she’d been using to record the moment.

So excited, I cried. Real tears.

If that weren’t enough, Dominic Smith, back on the field Sunday for the first time after a fracture in his foot left him unable to play for months, brought the Mets to victory in the 11th inning of their final game of the season against the Atlanta Braves.

I never thought I’d cry, get so emotional over a baseball team. But the Mets taught me something this summer. This summer wasn’t easy. I lost one of my oldest friends in August, on a blistering hot day when the sun was shining — a day when the Mets won 2-0. Watching the Mets refuse to give up even in the face of unrelenting odds gave me some measure of comfort, of hope. No matter what was happening, in the world or in my own life, the game continued, the players kept lining up and giving it their all, heading up to bat and showing up to give it their best shot.

Because no matter what life hands us, the true winners keep fighting, persevering, rallying together no matter what the odds.

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The Mets became a beacon this summer. No, they didn’t make the playoffs, they lost that chance by an agonizingly slim margin. But for me, at least, that didn’t matter. I’d argue that the honor, the sportsmanship, the never-say-die enthusiasm, the sheer joy they showed for the game this season made them forever winners.

For all who are fans of the game, or any game for that matter, there’s a bond that’s formed as stats are bandied and allegiances are born. Life happens. We’re not all twentysomethings cheering on the Mets in the World Series anymore. Many of us have gotten older, seen illness, divorce, children grown and gone off into the world. We’ve endured heartache, crippling loss, worried about car payments and mortgages and making enough to put food on the table. We’ve had days when it seemed there was no more room in our hearts for something that would surprise us, make us feel that surge of expectation we knew as little kids — that feeling that it was all still ahead and anything was possible.

But when Pete Alonso hit that homer, that’s exactly the feeling that brought us joyfully to our feet, had us dancing wildly, with abandon, in the stadium.

It was, in a word, magic. And as the glitter of pixie dust settled on the field Sunday, fans near and far settled in for the long wait till next season.

I’m one of them now. A fan. Wearing my Pete Alonso T-shirt and hugging Mr. Met in the stadium, I’ve learned a lesson I’ll carry with me always: Sometimes, it’s OK to let your guard down a little again and believe in miracles. Because sometimes, with a little luck, a lot of determination, and a flash of magic, dreams do come true.

Pete Alonso is interviewed after a game. (Lisa Finn)