This week was the culmination of a yearlong celebration for Mets fans, for whom 1986 feels like last week. Thursday’s 30th anniversary of Game 7 was meaningful (especially because WOR radio was smart enough to rebroadcast the game, bringing Bob Murphy back to us for another night), but Tuesday’s 30th anniversary of Game 6 was the key date for most.

Everyone who invested so much of their souls in that team has a story to tell about that night, Oct. 25, 1986. The best one I’ve ever heard belongs to Robert Ferraro, who, in 1986, was a 14-year-old diehard living in Parsippany, N.J. He was the only child of Mets fans — Bob, an engineer whose name is on the moon for his contribution to the Apollo mission guidance systems, and Rosemary, a teacher.

The Ferraros watched just about every game that summer together, and they were together that Saturday night as the game eked into extra innings. When Dave Henderson hit the homer in the top of the 10th that put the Mets’ season in peril, the house grew just as quiet as Shea Stadium (Vin Scully’s classic description: “It’s so quiet in New York you can almost hear Boston.”)

“My parents left the room while the Sox were still hitting,” Robert Ferraro recalls. “I heard them begin to argue. It’s a dispute that doesn’t involve the Mets — although psychologists might beg to differ. Still, they are talking to each other in tones that I hadn’t heard before.”

What young Robert heard then was startling.

“I WANT A DIVORCE!” his mother screamed.

“OH YEAH? WELL … GOOD! I WANT ONE TOO!” his father countered.

“I had never witnessed a fight between them, ever,” Robert says. “Certainly not of that magnitude. I suppose as a 14-year-old my radar wasn’t tuned to detect unrest in a relationship, but anyone who knew them would be surprised as well. They were both so mild mannered.”

To his horror, Robert saw his father grab his car keys, rush out of the house, and slam the door at inning’s end. His mother bolted for her bedroom, and slammed that door, too. It was almost too surreal. The baseball season was falling apart. And so, incredibly, was his family.

“[Wally] Backman flying out doesn’t help my crisis,” Robert says, “and by the time [Keith] Hernandez does as well, my life is on fire.”

Mets fans know what comes next, the way they know all the lyrics to “American Pie,” the way they know, verbatim, all the key scenes in “The Godfather.” Gary Carter singled. Kevin Mitchell singled. First-and-second, two outs. Robert had one eye on the TV, another at the living room window.

“I see my father hasn’t left the driveway yet,” he says. “I can see the glow of the radio off his face. He’s still listening to the game.”

Ray Knight stepped in. Robert walked to his parents’ room, and noticed the lights were off, no sound coming from the TV. “Mom,” he says, “the Mets have the tying run on first. Two outs but … you gotta believe, right?” There was no reply.

Knight, down to his final strike, flared one over second base. Carter scored. It was 5-4. Robert let loose a scream and suddenly noticed something: light from under the door. His mother had put the game on. He hurried to the window: the car was still in the driveway. He saw the glow reflect off his father’s face.

Bob Stanley threw a wild pitch. Mitchell raced home. Tie game.

And in the Ferraro house in Parsippany, a bedroom door swung open, a mother raced down the hallway toward her son, shouting “I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! I CAN’T …”

“Little roller up along first … BEHIND THE BAG! It gets through Buckner! Here comes Knight and the Mets WIN it …!”

Robert and Rosemary were hugging, jumping and screaming.

“And then,” Robert says, “the front door opens.”

On June 25 this year, Robert visited his parents in Easton, Pa. He brought a copy of Game 6 with him. They popped it in. Robert’s fiancée couldn’t make the trip so it was just the three of them, same as it used to be.

All of them agreed that, along with the dinner and the cake, this was a splendid way to celebrate Bob and Rosemary’s 50th anniversary.

Vac’s Whacks

There never has been another athlete, ever, who should know better about questioning the veracity of a knee injury than Joe Namath, who played every second of his pro career on bum knees. Not Joe Willie’s finest hour.

If you watched the kickoff of the Giants game last week and made it all the way to the end of that 6-6 mess of a Seahawks-Cardinals game, that was a good 14 ¹/₂ hours of football. Or, about the equivalent of seven innings of World Series baseball.

Call me cynical, but I have a hard time envisioning a happy recap at the end of the latest Yoenis Cespedes dance for the Mets.

Baseball postseason really is as good a time as any to realize we’ve had the great good fortune to see Kevin Burkhardt graduate before our eyes from a fine local sideline reporter to an absolute star as a network presence, both as a host and a play-by-play man.

Whack back at Vac

Don Reed: The English switched calendar systems in 1752. They may have to do it again before the Cubs win a World Series!

Vac: I know this makes me a terrible American, and maybe the last man to get in line. But I’ll STILL believe the Cubs win the World Series when I see it with my own two eyes.

Mike Webb: Joe Namath reminds me of Don Larsen, someone who had a spectacular achievement and lifelong defining moment in an otherwise mediocre career.

Vac: For those of us who grew up worshipping Namath that’s hard to accept. Except the numbers really don’t lie.

@metswillwin: We in Western New York suffered through Fitzpatrick’s uncanny ability to find the guy in the other jersey at the worst time. Good luck.

@MikeVacc: Wait, don’t tell me YOU lost faith in him too!?!?

Evan Wadler: Cleveland can chirp, but what it has that the Knicks (and every other team for that matter) don’t isn’t cohesion or the right attitude, it’s LeBron James.

Vac: Funny, the same used to apply to the Heat and Miami …