As I walked the streets of Midtown Thursday afternoon, I could see a few things. It was a seasonable, reasonable day — sunny, warm enough that you could talk yourself out of your winter coat for the day. 

And there, walking out of Lucy’s Cantina was a guy in a Mets’ windbreaker. 

There, stepping up out of the Penn Station subway, was a woman wearing a Marquette sweater — and a Yankees cap. 

There — no lie — zipping down 34th Street was a red PT Cruiser with a huge Mets logo on the driver’s side door. 

There, in the crowded bustle outside Madison Square Garden, where most of the talk was centered around Big East Basketball, someone decked out in Seton Hall paraphernalia saw me, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked, “You think the Yankees are gonna sign Freeman now?” 

“Maybe Correa, too,” I replied. We were both smiling. 

“By the end of the weekend?” he asked. 

Now, yes: Maybe these are accidents. Maybe they are coincidences. Maybe that guy would’ve worn that Mets windbreaker anyway, maybe that woman was making no other statement by wearing the Yankees cap than there was enough of a chill in the air that she wanted to keep her head warm, and is tired of opting for ski hats. 

(I have no explanation for the guy in the Mets car, unless Steve Cohen is waiting to surprise us all that he’s bringing back bullpen cars and that guy was driving one off the showroom floor to Citi Field.) 

Yes: Maybe all of the oaths thrown around by untold swatches of fans will be honored, even after baseball reached a settlement between its warring parties, with spring training set to start at once and Opening Day scheduled for April 7. 

Maybe you have already decided to transfer all your baseball loyalties to the newly reformed New Jersey Generals of the USFL, who kick off their inaugural season against the Birmingham Stallions April 17 (it’ll be a long-distance courting; the Generals, for the time being, are based in Birmingham, too). 

Maybe you’ve done what folks have been predicting for years, shifting your attention to soccer, choosing between the Red Bulls and NYCFC, maybe selecting a team in the Premiership. (Though it should be noticed that there’s enough room in a sports fan’s life for a lot of different teams, and a lot of different sports if you really want to make the room). 

Maybe you’ve simply found other habits, other hobbies, other ways to pass the time. Maybe you’re committed to easing up on the intensity of your relationship with the game, refusing at long last not to allow your spring and summer moods to be dictated by the whims and the rhythms of a long baseball season. 

Maybe you’ve just said: Enough. 

The hell with baseball altogether. 

For good. Forever. 

If you have chosen any of those paths, then bully for you, because you learned — maybe again, maybe with clarity this time — that baseball too often doesn’t love you back, that it’s the most heartbreaking of all unrequited devotions. Maybe this was the final straw after years of neglect, the game distancing itself from you as it slows to a crawl. 

Again: Good for you. Life can be just fine without baseball. 

But for baseball fans, life is simply better with baseball. And slowly Thursday afternoon — quarterfinals day at the Big East, for 39 years a civic basketball holiday (and holy day) in Manhattan — began to shift, ever so slightly, toward baseball. There will be no games lost this year. There will be an expanded postseason. There is now a universal DH. Seven-inning games are a thing of the past. So is the ghost runner. 

Maybe you like these things, maybe you don’t; chances are you found someone with whom to argue them yesterday at your saloon of choice, water cooler of choice, text thread of choice. Maybe the disagreements were heated. 

Thank goodness. 

Baseball fans should want different things and root for different outcomes. They crave debate and disagreement about teams, and rules, and history. They should never be truly united as they have been these past few weeks, and months, in full agreement about one thing: baseball was pointing a loaded gun at itself. 

No more. Baseball is back. If you have chosen exile, Godspeed, and good for you. If you are willing to channel Michael Corleone — “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!” — well, good for you, too. Baseball is back. After 99 days in the wilderness, it is home again. Good for the game. Better for those of us who still truly love it.