We exited that night, father and son, mumbling of portents and talking of hope returning next season.

Now, in the space of just six weeks, we have a Lazarus risen from the dead, a team that on Saturday morning sat within a game and a half of the wild-card-leading Nationals. On Friday night, this handsome stadium by Flushing Bay was packed and raucous in the ninth inning — minus perhaps 8,000 unfortunates who decided to beat the traffic only to find themselves standing in the parking lot and on the No. 7 train platform listening to radios and cursing their decision. Inside, as New Yorkers are prone to, we exchanged high-fives and joyous obscenities.

Frazier’s three-run moonshot tied the score, and five batters later Michael Conforto hit a laser beam of a single that scored Juan Lagares with the winning run. As it happened, I had wandered by Conforto’s locker before the game and asked if he sensed New Yorkers were taking his once somnolent team seriously.

He pulled on his uniform shirt and peered up at me. “We’ve got a long way to go,” he said. “We’re not even halfway through August.” He smiled and conceded that as a right fielder he was a sort of human barometer, registering catcalls and encouragement. “I will tell you that I don’t get booed nearly as much right now.”