WE TEND to think the old days were kinder, and gentler, and far more agreeable than they are now. We tend to think that we were a lot more patient back then, even in New York.

We are, after all, a city that once witnessed one of its baseball teams lose 120 out of 160 games in a season and managed not to burn the Polo Grounds down. Brooklyn once witnessed its baseball team lose the first seven World Series it played in before winning one; the Borough of Churches somehow managed to keep rioters off its streets and jumpers off its bridges.

It’s easy to vent about The Way Things Are, and to lament The Way Things Used To Be. It’s easy to reminisce about Gil Hodges’ World Series batting slump, and the parishioners who prayed (urged by their priests and preachers to do so, straight from the pulpit) for his offensive recovery, and contrast that to the vile streams of invective now aimed at the likes of Jason Giambi and Carlos Delgado.

Everything was better then, wasn’t it?

Fans were kinder.

Media was gentler.

Players were humbler.

Isn’t that so? In a word: no. Joe DiMaggio was booed. Mickey Mantle was booed. Babe Ruth was booed. Joe Namath was booed. You want more names? Roger Maris was booed. Mike Piazza was booed. Tino Martinez was booed. Lefty Gomez was booed. John McGraw was booed.

Here’s a little story for you, to underline just how long a tradition it really is, fans booing players, players hearing the boos, players maybe reacting to the boos. We spent a lot of time in this sporting town recently wringing our hands over L’Affair Delgado, when the Mets’ first baseman hit a long home run, received a standing ovation after being booed relentlessly for a month, and refused to come out of the dugout.

Was that a snub or an oversight? Was that a statement or an overreaction? In 2008, there’s no way we’ll ever crawl into Delgado’s brain for an honest answer because that simply isn’t how things are done in 2008. In 2008, you are sooner to get a candid sound bite out of a politician than out of a pitcher or a power forward.

Ninety-six years ago, it was much different. I’ve been spending a little time with the 1912 Giants and the 1912 Red Sox for a book project I’m working on, and you’d be amazed at how little things have really changed through the years. There were 13 newspapers in Manhattan alone in 1912, so if you think the press box is a crowded place now, imagine quadrupling the number.

Anyway, the year before, during the 1911 World Series, the Giants’ John (Red) Murray – who had hit .291 with 78 RBIs and 48 stolen bases in the regular season – was, to be kind, godawful. He had come to bat 21 times and he had collected zero hits, struck out five times, walked only twice. The Giants lost to the Philadelphia A’s in six games, and Murray was fastened with oversized goat horns. He was blistered in the papers. And all through the first months of 1912, he was destroyed at the Polo Grounds, called “gutless” and “yellow” and “goldbrick” and all manner of insults that even the most creative Mets fan has yet to hurl at Delgado.

A year later, in his first at-bat against the Red Sox in the World Series, Murray slammed a long double. The crowd at the Polo Grounds roared. At inning’s end, he returned to his position in the outfield and was cheered from the bleachers. When he returned to the dugout, the folks in the expensive seats showered him with huzzahs.

He stared straight ahead, never once acknowledging any of it.

The Giants’ captain, Larry Doyle, saw this. In the dugout – as he related in his column in the next day’s New York Globe – Doyle sat down next to Murray.

“John,” he asked, “why didn’t you tip your lid?”

And with the question, John turned as red as his nickname suggested he might.

“That’s probably the bunch hollering there that burned me in effigy down in 135th Street because I didn’t get a hit in the Series last year,” Murray seethed. “I think I recognize some of the guys now. Do you suppose I’d tip my lid to that bunch or any other? If I drop one or fan out the next inning, they will all be after me.”

Surmised Doyle, the pundit/infielder: “It’ll take some time for John to warm back up to the fans of New York, I’m afraid. They were none to happy with him.”

And Steve from Staten Island, Jerome from Manhattan and Mike from Montclair weren’t even born yet.

Mike Vaccaro’s e-mail address is michael.vaccaro@nypost.com. While waiting for that 1912 book, you can bide your time with “1941: The Greatest Year In Sports,” available in paperback next month from Broadway Books.

VAC’S WHACKS

All those who had Ryan Church as the Mets’ first-month MVP in the office pool, present yourselves.

*

Let’s just say that when you see Bobby Abreu inching toward the right-field wall, the first image that jumps to mind isn’t exactly William Wallace charging at the English army.

*

“Living on the Black” is such a wonderful book that you hope it doesn’t take John Feinstein another 15 years before he comes back to the ballpark and writes a little more baseball.

*

Insurance forms are loaded with more laughs than “The Joe Girardi Show.”