On a recent drive home after I adopted my cat, Carmela, my best friend’s mom was listening to the Milwaukee Brewers opening on AM radio. The Brewers were playing the New York Yankees, at their home stadium in the Bronx. 

The crunchy, distant sound of the radio sounded like a sweaty summer in my dad’s Jeep. After many years being street-parked in Brooklyn, the license plate was hanging on by fishing wire, the left door handle was nowhere to be found and I don’t remember there being a rearview mirror on the passenger side. 

The Mets game would be on AM, broadcasted from Shea Stadium until 2008, when we were stuck in traffic on the Belt Parkway on the way home from Coney Island or Rockaway Beach. There’d be sand in the car and my hair would be full of salt. My dad, after more than an hour of staring at the Verrazano bridge in the same spot, would be absolutely livid about the traffic. 

But the Mets game was a saving grace. It’s like the sweet hums and the cheers from a rare home run were a lullaby. 

Unfortunately, no one else in my family really engaged in my dad’s excitement for baseball, or sports in general. I can’t engage with the slow-paced game, despite my dad’s love for it. My brother would run away from the ball when he was in a youth baseball league. 

But there were many times where my dad and I were able to bond through New York sports. 

Ike Davis, a former Mets player, will be a name I’ll never forget. When my mom would be working late on Wednesday nights, my dad and I would watch Property Brothers and switch back to ESPN during commercial breaks. 

We’d watch Davis make gravity-defying catches over the railings. He’d laugh in amazed excitement over our plates of huevos rancheros or fancy omelets. We had a lot more of these moments as I got older. 

When I was in sixth grade, the New York Rangers were having a particularly good year. He even took me to a Rangers vs. Avalanche game at Madison Square Garden where we ate cheeseburgers and got seats behind the goal. I’ll never forget that night. 

I was a timid middle schooler and felt embarrassed to participate in the cheering and the famous Rangers goal song. But by the end of the night, both my dad and I were jumping out of our seats in pure excitement. 

I never had much of a problem bonding with my dad. But something about how we’d be so excited over the Rangers, or simply seeing how excited the Mets make him, warms my heart and makes our relationship even stronger.

His love for the team is so known that I had an ex-boyfriend text me when the Mets almost made it to the World Series last year:

“Hell yeah go Mets! I bet your dad is hype good for him!”

I will defend the Mets with my whole being, even though I don’t think I could name a single Mets player this season; maybe Pete Alonso? 

But my dad’s love for the Mets is a testament to his kindness. He roots for the underdog and complains about the commercialization of the Yankees. He loves the Mets because he’s loved them since he was born. He is loyal, never giving up on his team even after he says that they “stink” that particular season. 

He cycles between his DePaul Blue Demons hat and his Mets 1969 World Series hats on those beach days at Rockaway, oftentimes taking it off his head and holding it out the window as he rests his arm on the sill. 

My family’s dedication to particular New York sports teams is not isolated to my dad, as he may even get it from his own dad. 

My late grandfather, and other Preziosi men, are diehard Giants fans. My papa had Giants games burned onto CDs that he’d sometimes send out as Christmas presents, along with a set of season tickets. As I am writing this, I am wearing a New York Jets sweatshirt that I bought at a thrift store and am feeling extreme guilt. 

I associate the teams my Dad loves — the Knicks, Rangers, Giants and most importantly, the Mets, with his soul which is kind and gentle to the core. My older brother, Patrick, is named after famous Knicks player Patrick Ewing for being a “fighter” at the time of his premature birth. 

So hearing that crunchy sound in the car with my best friend and her mom, as I brought home my new cat, gave me such a feeling of grateful nostalgia to have a Mets fan for a dad. I pray for those who were raised by Yankees fans. 

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