Mets’ 1986 reunion was a painful contrast to this brutal season in Flushing| Klapisch

NEW YORK — I sat across from Ron Darling in the media dining room not long after the ceremony at Citi Field honoring the 1986 Mets on Saturday. Just about the whole crew was there, although I needed to check the names on the jerseys to recognize a couple of them.

It’s been 40 years. Everyone is older and softer now. No matter. The nostalgia brought me right back to a more innocent time in Flushing, even if Citi Field was barely half full.

That’s what saddened me.

It wasn’t so much seeing Ray Knight in a wheelchair pushed by Howard Johnson. Or that Bobby Ojeda appeared to be limping. Or that Davey Johnson, Gary Carter and Buddy Harrelson, all deceased, had to be represented by family members.

It’s that a reunion like this should’ve been a sell-out.

The fact that only 30,000 fans showed up spoke volumes about how far the Mets, 47-65, have fallen this season. They lost another meaningless game to the Marlins, but the sense of melancholy ran deeper than that.

It was what Darling said over lunch that stayed with me on the drive home.

“It’s like we were doing a necrology update during the ceremony,” Darling said. “Next time we have a reunion, there might be a half-dozen of us who won’t be there.”

Darling is right. One by one, year by year, the ’86 legacy will fade. The process has already begun. Sure, folks will always talk about Mookie Wilson’s ground ball trickling through Bill Buckner’s legs and the miracle comeback against the Red Sox in the World Series. But fewer people will be around who actually saw it happen.

I’m one of them. Of the reporters who covered the ’86 Mets, I’m the last who’s still working full time. Dan Castellano (Star-Ledger), Marty Noble (Newsday) and Joe Durso (New York Times) have died. The others have retired or are writing part-time as freelancers.

I’ve been around long enough to watch baseball — and New York — become almost unrecognizable since 1986. That includes how talent was evaluated (no advanced analytics), how players spoke (unfiltered), how games were reported (by the tabloids), and how the sport was consumed by fans (without social media).

The entire city was on a first-name basis with the Mets. Lenny Dykstra was “Nails.” Gary Carter was “Kid.” Keith Hernandez was “Mex.” Doc Gooden and Darryl Strawberry were … of course, you know.

Few teams in New York have had such a close relationship with their fan bases. And for good reason: The Mets were the glory boys back then, a roster full of charismatic characters who loved seeing their names in the papers.

As a reporter, you only had to keep your eyes and ears open. Something was bound to come your way. Of all the Mets from that golden era, Dykstra was the most entertaining. He was reckless, fearless, and consumed with rumors and innuendo.

But Dykstra also had a short attention span. He was honest, too, never bothering to hide his impatience with the interview process.

“Lenny, you got some time this morning?” I asked one morning.

Puffing on a cigarette, Dykstra answered, “Dude, you know I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Lenny, people want to read about you,” I replied.

“Dude, you’ve asked me all the questions before,” Dykstra said. “I’ve given you all the answers. You know what I’m going to say. So go ahead and write the interview. What you say I said, I said. I trust ya, dude.”

And with a friendly pat on the shoulder, Dykstra would leave me with an empty notebook.

I miss Davey Johnson, who was so sure of himself that he gave the Mets complete freedom of speech. He ripped the players in the papers. They ripped him right back.

Johnson loved the tabloids because he knew the big headlines irritated his boss, general manager Frank Cashen. The Mets took their cue from Johnson, especially Strawberry.

Today, he is a minister, sober and in control of his addictions. Forty years ago, Strawberry was volatile and unpredictable. Fans either loved him or loathed him, but they all wanted to know what he was like.

Like most star athletes, Strawberry was as self-centered then as he is humble today. But what was most fascinating was Strawberry’s friendship not with Gooden, but with Darling.

Darling, who attended Yale, was the Robert Redford of the big leagues: handsome, intelligent, polite. Everyone assumed Darling was using baseball as a stepping stone to politics. Hence, outsiders tried to force themselves into Darling’s personal life. They figured he was their ticket to bigger and better things — maybe even Hollywood.

Strawberry wasn’t one of the hangers-on. Darling trusted him because Strawberry wasn’t pretentious. He had no ulterior motives. Even today, Strawberry isn’t afraid to tell it like it is.

When asked about the collapse of the 2026 Mets, Strawberry tore them to pieces.

“It takes fight to win here in New York,” he said. “It can be so great in New York, but that’s where the human part comes in when you’re building a team. Who’s going to lead? Somebody’s gotta take the responsibility.”

Strawberry was one of the main characters in the team-produced “Let’s Go Mets Go” video. It was a four-minute production that debuted on Aug. 27 of that year. By then, the Mets had an insurmountable lead in the NL East. It was obvious they were heading straight for October.

The goofy, upbeat action featured the Mets, local fans and high-profile celebrity cameos, including Tony Bennett, Howard Stern, Robert Klein, Joe Piscopo, Dr. Joyce Brothers and Mayor Ed Koch.

The music, the hairstyles and the sheer audacity were pure 80s New York: pre-cell phones, pre-internet, pre-everything.

On Saturday, the crowd at Citi Field, beaten down by months of bad baseball, came to life. They loved the video. It got the biggest cheer of the day.

Watching that video on the big Jumbotron screen in center field, I wonder how many of those Mets miss that summer of ’86. I bet every single hand would be raised.

Make that plus one.

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