tmt play The Mets Gave My Son With Autism a Gift. Now Is a Good Time to Say Thank You.

“What a storytmt play, right?”

Those words, first uttered by the Mets’ manager, Carlos Mendoza, were written on the special edition Mets beer koozie I bought at the game against the Dodgers last Friday. While they summed up the team’s entire improbable postseason run, they seemed especially appropriate that night.

The Temptations sang the national anthem, then serenaded shortstop Francisco Lindor and the crowd with the song “My Girl” — which played again as Lindor’s walk-up song when it was his turn to bat, in honor of his wife, Katia, and their two daughters. The night felt amazing and full of possibility. Sure enough, down 3-1 in the National League Championship Series, the Mets won the game, keeping hope alive and sending the best-of-seven series back to Los Angeles.

“And what do we say to the god of death? ‘Not today,’” read a sign held by a fan as I walked to the 7 train after the game. Giddy, and feeling that the Grimace magic would come through once again, I laughed.

After a slow start this year, the Mets roared back to make the playoffs and, briefly, inspired visions of a Subway Series, or even their first championship in nearly 40 years. But the gods of death did come, two days later. The Mets lost Game 6 to the Dodgers on Sunday. The story, and the season, is over.

My son has autism, and he will most likely never live independently. He is 14, and I’ve been indoctrinating him into the world of baseball, to give him a hobby — to help him bond with those around him, particularly his cousins, who are big sports fans. It will be a hobby he can hold on to, even after I’m gone. Two years ago, when I wrote about what the Mets have meant to my family, the team reached out to me and offered my son a chance to meet some players. We made it happen in June 2023, to celebrate his 13th birthday. We brought his cousins, too — giving all the kids a chance to create memories together.

The day he met the Mets, he was no different than he was on any other day in our lives. My son has trouble speaking the way neurotypical people do, and his behavior — touching things, making unusual noises, avoiding eye contact, a flat facial expression — often makes his disability evident. I frequently feel I am the buffer between him and the world, and I was nervous about how he would behave, and how he would be received. Please don’t hit me, I thought. Please don’t hit anyone. My son can be aggressive, particularly in moments of stress. He usually directs it at me, his mom, the safest person in his life. Even though he apologizes, being hit is one of the most painful things, physically and emotionally, about raising him.

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