For me, it all starts with July 4th. Wait, scratch that. It all starts with July 5th. That was when the game ended, which for me was way more important than when it began. Probably. Maybe it was both.

Ok, July 4-5, 1985. One of the craziest games in baseball history, that was the night-into-morning affair where the Braves and Mets played 19 innings, after a two-hour delay in the start time, and sandwiched around another rain delay. It ended around four in the morning. And somehow I was there, not quite six years old, with my dad and mom and two sisters.

We came for the fireworks, because that’s what families with young kids did in Atlanta in the 1980s, assuming they didn’t want to deal with Stone Mountain or Lenox Mall. And we stayed for the fireworks, too. At least, that's the reason my dad tells me we stayed.

I’m using we very loosely, though. To the extent I had any agency over my actions at that age, I came for Dale Murphy. Because even at not-quite-six, I already knew him as a hero. Not in the way I would a couple years later, where I understood the game a bit better and could really appreciate what it was that made him so special, but in a more innocent way. He got the most cheers. He hit homeruns, a play a child of any age can get excited about. And he looked nice. He smiled.

But I also came for Glenn Hubbard. He hit .232/.321/.314 that year, but you could not have convinced me that he wasn’t the best second basemen in the league, not even with three bags of Big League Chew. He was a slick fielding marvel to me. And I probably had the most profound case of confirmation bias ever, because I’m sure I saw every one of his 5 HR and 21 doubles that year, even though I didn’t watch that many games. No, he was our second baseman, and he was my favorite.

I came for big Bob Horner, in what was already one of the last years of his short career. I came for Gerald Perry and Ken Oberkfell, even. I came for the Braves. Because I had their banner on my wall already. Because they were often on TV in the den. Because they were my hometown team.

I couldn’t tell you what happened in that game – not without going back through an old box score, anyway. Apparently, I saw Ho Jo hit a HR, and Dwight Gooden pitch! It was back and forth, the Braves twice scoring in the bottom half on an extra inning to tie it. Rick Camp hit a HR, the only one of his career, to even things up the 18th. Eventually, the Braves fell, as the Mets put up five runs in the 19th, with the Braves only able to muster another two. 16-13. Game over.

No, I can’t tell you what happened on the field that night, not from memory. But I can tell you the feeling in the stands. The excitement for first pitch that slowly faded as we waited those extra hours. The rush of the game when it finally did start. The stick of the warm, humid air. The taste of hot dogs with ketchup, KFC we’d brought in, ice-cold Coca Cola, and Cracker Jack. Talking with my Dad, about the Braves, yes, but also about his team growing up, the Yankees, and his favorite player, the Mick (my dad was from Brooklyn post-Dodgers – forgive him this transgression). My sisters, one far too young for any baseball game, the other just old enough not to care much. The slap-happiness as the hours wore on, the rains came and went again, and the innings kept piling up.

Then there were the sounds. The ball exploding off the bat. The idle chatter of the crowd. The roar when something exciting happened. And it was a big crowd! For any team, not just the 1985 Braves. A big crowd that dwindled throughout the night, leaving only the most loyal fans. Or so I thought at the time – now I realize it was likely a combination of the drunkest fans, those who had built up enough of a buzz to last through the no-beer-sales innings, and those fans who just became committed to the idea of waiting it out. Like my dad. The fireworks to come were like the Holy Grail to him that night, and he would make sure we saw them.

I remember that feeling, the sense of camaraderie we all felt with each other, the fans and the team on the field, all slogging through a wet, miserable night so that we might see some loud explody things in the sky. We were all in in together. That feeling sustained me through those terrible late 1980s seasons, when I didn’t care much about how much we won or lost. It kept me watching when we traded Dale Murphy, at a time when I was old enough to be really hurt by it. And it was that feeling, multiplied by a googol (which was a number I found fascinating as a 12-year old), that lit up the entire city in 1991.

For me, that feeling started somewhere in the hours between July 4 and 5, 1985. It wasn’t actually the first game I’d been to, but it will always feel first for me. And my dad got his holy grail. Even though my sisters and I fell asleep, me somewhere around two in the morning, long after the caffeine wore off, he and my mom stayed strong. When the game finally, mercifully ended, he woke us. To watch those beautiful lights. To hear the thunderous sounds. And to revel one last time with everyone else who had stuck it out, under the warm glow of a brilliant, multi-color sky.