We are all Mets fans. We all love our team. But there is one Mets fan who will always shine above the rest in my eyes, and that is my little brother, Christopher.

Christopher lost his battle with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy on October 4, 2019, just shy of his 25th birthday. When he was first diagnosed, doctors said he wouldn’t live past the age of 18. He defied those odds by almost seven years. Christopher’s memory will truly live on — from how he never once complained about being confined to a wheelchair to how he loved his favorite baseball team with every ounce of his being right up until the end.

The Mets helped Christopher in ways they did not even know. They gave him hope. They gave him something to look forward to. They gave him excitement. They provided him with an outlet to yell and scream at the television, getting some of his frustration out.

They gave him something to talk about — the ability to have a normal conversation about players and stats just like every other man in his twenties. They gave him an escape from the constraints of his every day struggles.

They gave him something to further bond about with his sister. They gave him a way to remember and honor his late father. They gave him something to love.

No, Christopher did not get to see a Mets championship in his lifetime. But he got to see a couple of World Series. He got to be in attendance at the first game ever played at Citi Field. He got to be in attendance at the first ever playoff game played at Citi Field. He was in attendance for ’69 weekend, for the retirement of his favorite player, Mike Piazza’s, number, for countless Opening Days, for Star Wars Days (even getting to watch one from the warmth of a press box, thanks to the Mets), and so much more.

He got to see his big sister get credentialed, and would excitedly ask tons of questions after every single game she was at.

He saw his new favorite player, Pete Alonso, break the home run record and countless other records. He spent an afternoon bowling with David Wright, thanks to the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

He was able to go down to Mets Spring Training back in 2009, thanks to the help of Make-A-Wish Foundation. He met the players and had conversations with them. He went to batting practice. He brought the line-up cards out to the umpires. He got to see the Mets play somewhere other that Citi Field. That experience was the best of his life.

No matter how dark times got, Christopher still had hope — a trait he brought from his Mets fandom into real life with him, a trait that has taught me so much. “Ya gotta believe” was not only a rallying cry for the Mets, but for his life as well.

The day before the 2019 Home Opener, Christopher landed in the emergency room. Instead of giving up then and there, he battled for another six months, fighting his hardest every day. If you do not believe in coincidences, you could see a parallel to the 2019 Mets here. You can see how resilient Christopher also was.

Christopher brought the pureness back into baseball. He simply loved the game and loved his team. He watched as many games as he could, whether it be from home, on the radio, or in person. He would record every game, in case he was unable to watch it. Regardless of if the Mets won or not, he would rewind the games to see all of the scoring plays.

He knew any players’ stats, both on the Mets or not, off the top of his head. He knew the standings. He always knew exactly how many games the Mets were back (or, in those happier circumstances, how many they were up by). He remembered both big game moments and small ones. He could give you a play-by-play of any game. He’d throw in some color commentary, too.

Thank you, Mets, for giving my little brother something to love. Thank you for giving him something else to focus on. Thank you for giving him a place to go to watch his favorite team. Thank you for giving him memories and experiences that he cherished up until the end.

May Christopher’s life always be an inspiration to us all. May his legacy live on. May the Mets win the World Series in his honor. I know that he will be watching from above.