I Had spent the day in the Boston Public Library, lost in a time warp, lost in a black-and-white baseball world, and I was tired and I was cranky and I was in the mood for fresh air and human companionship, to be released from the magical microfilm rooms that can really be more enjoyable than time machines if you allow them to be.

My time in town was short and my workload still quite high, and even though there was a baseball game at Fenway Park on Monday evening and it seemed a pleasant way to regenerate my inner battery, I passed. There was work to be done and research to be completed, discipline demanded decorum, and so I chose Christy Mathewson and Smoky Joe Wood over Jon Lester.

On almost any other day that baseball has existed, going all the way back to 1869, that would undoubtedly have been the wise choice. On this day, of course, by the time the library was closing, Jon Lester was about six outs away from closing out a no-hitter against the Kansas City Royals. I was back in my hotel room in the suburbs by then, in my library uniform: T-shirt, sweatpants, baseball cap. There was no time to make it to Fenway without looking like the troll who lives under the bridge (with a baseball writer’s card dangling from his neck). I watched the end like most everyone else, on ESPN.

And went to bed a bitter, bitter man.

This job, and my lifelong obsession with baseball, has allowed me to see and do some amazing things, see some historic things in person, lots of Yankees things, some Mets things.

I saw the Red Sox end an 86-year drought and the White Sox halt an 88-year drought. I saw McGwire hit No. 62 and No. 70 (and we can say all we want about those things now, but at the time it was something to behold), and I saw Roger Clemens throw a baseball at Mike Piazza’s head and later a bat at his face. I’ve seen walk-offs and dust-ups and Pedro Martinez wrestling Don Zimmer and triple plays and cycles and too many clubhouse celebrations to count.

But I’ve never seen a no-hitter. Not live. Now, I know that puts me in an overwhelming majority of the population. Most people have never witnessed spontaneous combustion, either. But I am lucky enough to be in ballparks about 80 or 90 times a year. After some years, that adds up, and you start dealing with some odds and probability figures that insist that you should stumble upon one by accident. My colleague, Brian Lewis, was in the house for David Wells’ perfect game and David Cone’s perfect game. It is why, despite the fact he is a nice, humble, agreeable soul, by all appearances a loving husband and a devoted father and a splendid all-around person, I detest Brian Lewis.

OK, that’s not true (not entirely true, anyway). But you understand my point, and my festering obsession. I have told this story before, but it seems relevant: My very first baseball game was June 29, 1974, Old-Timer’s Day at Shea. Mets beat the Cardinals, 4-0, Jon Matlack pitched a one-hitter . . . and the only knock was a third-inning single by John Curtis, the Cardinals’ pitcher.

My father, who himself never witnessed a no-hitter and left the park that day wearing the same bitter-beer face I had Monday, told me, sourly, “You have no idea what you almost saw today.”

Me, 7 years old, said: “Maybe we’ll see a no-hitter next time!”

Dad grunted. He knew something I didn’t know. It was that same day that he pointed out the press box to me, taught me that’s where the sports writers worked and, well, helped set my future on a straighter course over knishes and hot dogs than an army of college- and job-placement officers would later on. And put me in position to see thousands of games, in person, in my life. Again: odds, probability.

I had a sports editor once at another newspaper that had a rule: If you were at a ballpark and your assignment was done, you were free to go as soon as both teams had gotten a hit. For me, that was as unnecessary a rule as, “If someone offers to buy you a beer, you should drink it.”

And yet, it hasn’t mattered. And here’s the thing: I’m willing to settle for half a no-no, or even a third, or even a ninth of one. There’s been 10 times the past few years where someone has taken a no-hitter into the sixth inning at one of the local parks. I live about 25 minutes from Yankee Stadium, maybe 35 from Shea. The sixth inning is the line of demarcation. Ten times, I have made that familiar journey, for Rick Reed and Chien-Ming Wang, for Mike Mussina and for El Duque and for Steve Trachsel and others long forgotten. And I won’t say that every one of those efforts died within seconds of paying the toll on the GW Bridge, but quite a few did.

The closest was a few years ago, Tom Glavine mowing down the Colorado Rockies one Sunday afternoon at Shea. This was back when Gary Cohen and Howie Rose, both Mets fans from the cradle, were doing radio together, so the drive in was a glorious, nostalgic ride recalling all the misses and near-misses by the Mets (who are the me of franchises, no no-nos in 47 years, and counting). I pulled into the lot just as the eighth inning was starting, made the strategic decision to wait out the inning with the radio before hustling inside, listened to Gary and Howie eagerly describe Jeromy Burnitz fly out to left for the first out (“Five outs to go!”), and then Matt Holliday strike out swinging (“Four outs to go!”) . . . before hearing them mournfully describe a fly ball off the bat of Kit Pellow, owner of 52 hits in a big-league career that spanned three seasons and 202 at-bats, fall in for a double. Kit Pellow, meet Jimmy Qualls.

I turned on the ignition, pulled onto the Grand Central, and started heading west. A bitter, bitter man. Not for the first time. Not for the last.

(Mike Vaccaro’s e-mail address is michael.vaccaro@nypost.com. His book, “1941: The Greatest Year in Sports,” will be released in paperback next month).

VAC’S WHACKS

You have to hand it to the Yankee captain, who’s still looking to improve his game even after 13 years in the bigs, and who’s slugging percentage may be down but who’s Maxim Hot 100 average just went up from 6 percent to 7 percent, if the Minka Kelly reports are true. God bless you, No. 2.

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Those of us old enough to remember the Dwight Gooden Mania of 1984 and 1985 can sagely advise you young turks out there: Whenever it’s going to be Joba Chamberlain’s turn to pitch, think two words: public transportation.

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I would say it is a good bit of fortune that Chipper Jones wasn’t born yet during the 1969 NLCS between the Mets and the Braves, or else we might have to think up a different nickname than Amazin’s.

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How you liking the big city so far, Coach D’Antoni?