Today is the thirtieth anniversary of the 1986 World Series, Game 7, when the Mets defeated the Red Sox to complete their miraculous comeback.
I had suffered, then rejoiced, during the end of game 6, via a TV at the foot of the bed where I was staying with friends during a visit to NYC. (I still lived in Washington, where I was working for the Joint Committee on Taxation. The Tax Reform Act of 1986 had been enacted just days previously, and I was out on the road explaining the parts I had worked on to various tax lawyer groups.)
During the climactic moments of Game 6, I had kept turning the TV off then on again and muttering to myself. I meant to turn it off for good at the very moment the Mets lost (as they were down two runs, with two outs and no one on base, in the bottom of the tenth inning). As the rally proceeded, I moved slowly backwards towards the pillow end of the bed, and the tenor of my muttering started to change.
My now-wife was with me, trying to sleep (so I was trying to keep the muttering as low as possible). I told her afterwards that she had now seen the very worst of me; there were no more secrets to worry about.
But on to game 7, the one that is 30 years ago today. She must have gone to see her family, as I was in an NYC hotel room, hosting several friends from college and/or law school who had dropped by to see the game. We went through anxious moments early on, as Ron Darling faltered and Bruce Hurst was mowing the Mets down for the third time in just over a week. But when Keith Hernandex doubled to narrow the score to 3-2, we knew what was going to happen. (I think the Red Sox knew at that point, too.)