In my family, there are three givens as you enter this world: you are a Roman Catholic, a liberal Democrat, and a National League fan.

Both my parents (father, New York Giants; mother, Brooklyn Dodgers) regaled me over the years with stories of Subway Series past -- their shared agonies, her one ecstasy (1955: Dodgers win; the year of my birth).

Born too late, I had missed the train.

But I was able to take my older son, Matt, to Game 5, so we both could experience this New York institution. The tickets were a total surprise and it was the day before Matt's 16th birthday, so the timing couldn't have been better. And I knew my other son, Robert, would understand my taking Matt (see Cain v. Abel).

I had promised my wife, though, that we would leave Shea sometime after 11 p.m., so Matt would be able to get up for school. The Commissioner (her name is Diane) had spoken.

So, after the top of the 8th, Pettitte and Leiter still locked in a 2-2 death-struggle, I turned to Matt and said it was time to pull the plug. We called for a car and trudged under the No. 7 line to where we could pick up our ride.

There were hundreds of people at the corner of 126th and Roosevelt: radio-car dispatchers, drivers, police officers and people like us. The lights and sound of Shea Stadium filled the air while every car had its radio at full blast as the game went into the 9th. People were screaming -- at each other, at their radios -- in half a dozen languages, the only intelligible sounds to us being Tino and Jorge and Benny. As Sojo's 12-bouncer rolled into center, a cop ran from the intersection (she had been directing traffic) and high-fived one of the dispatchers, shouting, "Yes, my man Luis!"

We continued searching for our car. There was another roar from Shea and a driver right behind us screamed, "We're coming back, baby!" Finally, we found our car and got in. I asked the driver to put the game on.

Benny on third, Piazza at bat. The Yankees' announcer said, "It's a long fly ball..."

"It's gone!" shouted Matt. "It's not," I said. (Knowing the even-handed professionalism of the WABC announcers, had it been gone, we would have heard "OH, JESUS, GOD, NO!"). The Yankees were champs again. It was midnight. Matt had just turned 16.

And, in the end, we were just another couple of National League fans whose team had lost to the Yankees, on our way home back to Brooklyn.

When we were a few blocks from our house, the driver turned to us, and, in a thick Russian accent, said, "You guys are Mets fans?"

"Yeah," I said. "Great Series. Leiter and Pettitte were unbelievable."

"The Mets are good," he said, "but the Yankees have more character."

As he stopped to let us out, I said good night and added, "I guess it's wait till next year."

"Not for me," he said. "We're the Yankees. We always win."

God bless the Mets. God bless the Yankees. And God bless New York.

Mark Giles is copy chief for ESPN The Magazine. You can e-mail him at mark.giles@espnmag.com.