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I can’t believe that after all these years, people haven’t forgotten what happened 27 years ago this month.

When the calendar turns to June, my mailbox gets jammed with clippings, cards, balls and photos for me to sign.

I am proud of what we did that day, and I say we because it was a total team effort despite the fact that I get most of the credit. On June 16, 1997, I took the mound for the Mets at Yankee Stadium for the first ever Subway Series game. My opponent was the great Andy Pettitte.

Naturally, I will be pulling for my old team when the Series resumes a week from Tuesday at Citi Field.

Yankee Stadium was filled with over 56,000 people for that first game. Everyone thought Joe Torre’s club was the clear favorite to win. After all, they were the defending champs.

Well, my teammates and I beat the odds and silenced the doubters with a 6-0 victory. I pitched a complete-game shutout and allowed nine hits with two walks and eight strikeouts. I threw 119 pitches.

To this day, I am still the only Mets pitcher to throw a complete-game shutout vs. the Bombers. The Mets have had six other shutouts, but they were combined affairs. This also was my first complete-game shutout. I would have another one later for the Dodgers in Colorado, which was pretty cool, too.

I was thrilled when Bobby Valentine gave me the assignment. I am a real student of the game, and I knew this would be a really important night, the first regular- season meeting between the Mets and Yankees.

I was fueled that everybody thought we didn’t have a chance. I knew we had a good team, too, and I was glad we had a chance to show it

I remember walking into the Stadium, and everyone was yelling and screaming at us. The prevailing sentiment was that the Mets didn’t belong on the same field with the Yankees.

At game time I was really nervous, but it was a good kind of nerves if you know what I mean.

The guys made me relax right away when we scored three in the first. Bernard Gilkey and John Olerud had back-to-back doubles. Todd Hundley walked and Butch Huskey singled in the second run.

We got the third run when Todd and Butch worked a delayed steal and Todd stole home.

I thought that was a great omen when Todd stole home. I never thought I would see that.

I want to say a word about Todd right now. He called a great game and was with me on every batter.

One time Cecil Fielder hit a curve ball nine miles fouls, and he yelled at me to keep it down.

Getting those three in the first was just outstanding. I knew I could afford to make a mistake or two and I didn’t have to be perfect.

For me, my success that night was easy to explain. I threw first pitch strikes, and I had command of all four of my pitches.

Derek Jeter led off their inning with a single, but I ended things by striking out Paul O’Neill and Fielder.

In the Yankee third, Joe Girardi got me for a double but I fanned Jeter and Pat Kelly to get out of the jam.

Fielder had a one out double in the fourth, but I retired Tino Martinez and Charlie Hayes to keep the Yankees scoreless.

In their fifth, Girardi had a two-out single but Jeter flied to right for the third out.

I survived a walk to O’Neill in the sixth with strikeouts of Kelly and Fielder.

I changed my internal thinking when we got to the seventh. Naturally, I wanted to win but I really wanted a complete game because I knew how significant everything was. I had all confidence in our closer Johnny Franco to bail me out, but I desperately wanted to take this to the finish line myself.

We added two more runs in our half of the seventh and that really boosted my confidence. Matt Franco and Luis Lopez had singles and Gilkey walked and Mr. Clutch, John Olerud, knocked in two with a single and it was 5-0. The end was in sight.

I had a little scare in the eighth inning. With one out, Kelly and O’Neill singled but I got past Fielder and Martinez to keep them off the board again.

In our ninth Gilkey‘s sacrifice fly brought home Franco who had singled.

I can’t tell you what a great feeling it was going to the hill with three outs to go and a 6-0 lead. But that time Yankee Stadium felt like Shea. I can still hear “Let’s Go Mets” chants in the air.

The Yankees didn’t go quietly, Hayes led off the ninth with a single, but Gilk made a great play and threw him out at second. Mark Whiten singled and Girardi notched his third hit of the game. I got Derek looking and it was over.

I threw my hands in the air, and I was so proud of what we did. I was proud of my accomplishment, but I was equally as proud of the guys. We overcame the odds and beat a great Yankee team in their place.

Yankees vs. Mets: An oral history of the ’97 Subway Series that captivated the city: ‘Nothing bigger than that series’

After the game, the craziness continued. I did almost two hours’ worth of interviews in the clubhouse. We talked so long that I missed the team bus and had to take a cab back to Shea with our PR staff.

I tried not to make it all about me. I talked about Todd, Gilkey’s play and how good John Olerud was.

I couldn’t have picked a better time to pitch the best game of my career. I was 8-12 that year with a 4,00 ERA but for that particular game I was pretty good.

I happily sign all the memorabilia all the fans keep sending me. I never want to forget that night and what we did as a team.

Listen I know the Yankees probably will be favorites for the 2024 Subway Series. I just hope that our guys can rise up again and do what the Mets did June 16, 1997, at the House that Ruth built.

* * *

We were in the midst of perhaps the most exciting season at the Garden in nearly a quarter century, the last time both the Knicks and Rangers were in serious competition for their respective championships, and I couldn’t be sure I would be around to enjoy either of them for very long.

The reason was that at the same time Neil Smith and Mike Keenan were at each other’s throats, the executives at Paramount were courting suitors to buy the Garden, and if they were successful, it probably meant I would be out. To make matters worse, now that I had smoothed out (temporarily at least) the conflict between Smith and Keenan, I found I had to deal with the beginnings of a problem between Dave Checketts and Pat Riley. That one was not over the direction of the team, but over a few bucks.

Ten thousand bucks, to be exact.

Not an insignificant sum to be sure, but in the overall scheme of things, a piddling amount for a multi-billion-dollar outfit like Madison Square Garden and Paramount, its parent company.

Riley’s Knicks were leading the Atlantic Division all season, and there was extra pressure on us because our nemesis, Michael Jordan, had given up big-time basketball in favor of minor-league baseball. It seemed to everyone that this was our window to finally overtake the Chicago Bulls. Scottie Pippen, Horace Grant, and Toni Kukoc were good players, but none of them would ever be mistaken for Air Jordan.

But by late February, the Knicks suddenly hit a rough spot, and after a fourteen-point loss to the Suns in Phoenix on February 27, their lead over the Orlando Magic had dwindled to just two games. It was the first time the Knicks had lost four in a row since Riley had taken over as their head coach.

There was a day off before the next and last game of the trip, in Sacramento against the Kings. The Knicks were scheduled to fly to Sacramento right after the loss in Phoenix, but as the aircraft was taxiing on the tarmac, Riley made an executive decision.

“Fly us to Reno,” he told the pilot.

In his infinite wisdom, the coach decided what his team needed was not a day of practice in Sacramento, but a day and a half of fun and relaxation in Reno. When they checked into his chosen casino hotel he gave each of them $500 worth of chips to play with. It cost him ten grand out of his own pocket, but as far as Riley was concerned, pulling his team out of its rut was the main priority. And if it cost a few bucks to do that, so be it.

And besides, it was a business expense and would be reimbursed by the team. Or so he thought.

The problem with Riley’s executive decision was that he had not bothered to clear it with Checketts, his boss. The president of the Knicks was already not happy when he could not locate his team on what was supposed to be an off-day in Sacramento. And he was really unhappy that Riley would divert the team plane to another city without consulting with him first.

On the matter of the $10,000, however, Checketts told Riley it would not be a problem. That turned out not to be true.

Although Riley’s play paid immediate dividends — the Knicks won big in Sacramento the next night and ran off a string of fifteen straight wins to extend their divisional lead from two to 9-1⁄2 games — Checketts was dragging his feet on the Garden’s reimbursement to Riley. It mattered to Checketts not a bit that Riley’s decision was a stroke of genius that resulted in an immediate turnaround by his team. He was looking at it solely as an executive. Riley was looking at it as a coach. And the coach, as usual, was right.

Weeks went by, and Riley had not gotten his money. I was unaware of this until Checketts came up to me with the expense report in late April, right around the end of the season. Years later, he told author Chris Herring that he never signed off on the expense because no one at the Garden knew how to deal with it. His reasoning was that the unusual expense might be scrutinized by the shareholders of a publicly-traded company that was up for sale.

Bulls–t, bulls–t, bulls–t.

I say that because in 1994, when he came up to my office, Checketts came across with what sounded like the real reason: he was stung because Riley had not cleared the trip or the expense with him first. Checketts felt that as Riley’s boss, all major decisions regarding the Knicks needed to be approved by him. I didn’t completely disagree with him; there had to be some respect for the chain of command.

But this was a special case, I believed, and the results seemed to bear that out. I told Checketts I thought he was making a mistake and that I disagreed with his decision. I told him I would have no problem signing the check, but I wasn’t going to force him to do it. As the Garden president, I could have overridden his decision, but it was, after all, his decision. I wasn’t going to interfere with his method of running the team. I realized then that this was an ego bruise that might never heal.

Riley never got his reimbursement, and he never forgot it. To him, it wasn’t the money; it was the principle. He had made a decision that resulted in a turnaround for his team, and for Checketts not to respect it showed that the organization was not really committed to winning or supporting his methods of doing so. To my mind, this was the first nail in the coffin of their relationship, which as history shows, did not end well for Checketts or the Knicks.

There were other factors coming between them as well. The problem there was not unlike the one between the Rangers GM and head coach: two strong egos, two ambitious men, and one, Riley, who wanted the other’s job. The difference was that unlike Keenan, who would have liked to send Smith back to his native Toronto on a dogsled, Riley didn’t want Checketts out. He just wanted to be president of the Knicks. He would have been quite happy with Checketts as the president of Madison Square Garden — which happened to be my job — so long as he retained complete control of the Knicks.

Riley’s Knicks team was probably better positioned to win a championship than any of its predecessors going back to the 1972–73 team, which featured Willis Reed, Clyde Frazier, Dave DeBusschere, Bill Bradley, Earl “the Pearl” Monroe, and a young power forward named Phil Jackson. This team matched that team’s regular-season win total (fifty-seven), and although it fell short of the 1992–93 team’s franchise record of sixty wins, this season had one important difference: there was no Michael Jordan to kick them around. If ever the Knicks had a clear road to a championship, this seemed to be it.

And although the team was rolling along — the Knicks ended 1993 leading the Atlantic Division with an 18–7 record — my relationship with Checketts was not nearly as smooth. He went behind my back trying to set up a meeting with Stanley Jaffe, our boss at Paramount, to reveal his grand plan: He wanted the Knicks to be removed from the umbrella of Madison Square Garden and incorporated into Paramount. This would have made no substantial difference to the Knicks, who would still play in the arena. But it would have made a huge difference to Checketts. He would no longer have to report to me but directly to Jaffe.

I can’t recall ever being so pissed off at a meeting.

“Stanley, I think it’s all bulls–t,” I said. “But you made this meeting happen, so now you make a decision and let me know.”

Then I got up and left the meeting. Luckily, Jaffe agreed. He called me early the next morning to apologize for the meeting and say it was not going to happen. That surely did not sit well with Checketts.

Nor did an incident dating back to the 1992–93 season, when, in its Knicks preseason special, the MSG Network included a clip of John Starks headbutting Reggie Miller in the 1993 playoffs. After the special had run a few times, I got a call from an irate Jaffe, who insisted that I pull it off the air because “Knicks management” was upset about the inclusion of the headbutt. Since the special had been running for a while with no objections from anyone, I was pretty sure Jaffe hadn’t watched it. But I knew he had just been on a private Paramount flight with Checketts and GM Ernie Grunfeld.

The next morning, I got the call. No doubt, on that flight was where he learned about the objections of “Knicks management.”

“If you don’t take it off by nine o’clock tomorrow morning, I want you to hand in your resignation,” he told me.

I couldn’t believe it. I subsequently got a call from Donald Oresman, Paramount’s chief counsel, advising me not to fight Jaffe on this, that it wasn’t worth my job. But I was adamant; the incident had happened, it was an important part of that team’s story, and I thought we should keep it.

I then called Mike McCarthy, the VP of production, Marty Brooks, the network’s VP of programming, and Doug Moss, the network president, into my conference room. I told them about Jaffe’s call, my response, and the likelihood that I would have to resign the next day. I had one question: How many more times was this going to run on the network?

“None,” Brooks said. “It’s run its course. We’re ready to go to the regular season.”

I was relieved. “Marty, you’ve just given me my out,” I told him.

I let that lie all day and waited until the next morning before calling Jaffe. “Stanley, I want you to know that while I disagree with your position on this, that preseason special will not run again,” I told him.

He was satisfied. I never told him why, but when he reads this book, he will find out. And hopefully, he’ll smile.

Riley never smiled about that ten grand, though. After ITT bought a controlling interest in MSG September 1994, Rand Araskog, the new CEO, called a meeting. The first one to speak was Riley, who was sitting right next to Araskog. “I’m Pat Riley,” he said, as if anyone at the table didn’t already know. “You guys still owe me $10,000.”

Araskog had no idea what he was talking about. Sitting across the table from Checketts, I stifled a laugh. I knew things would only get worse from there.