Eddie Adelman is a writer who lives in Belfast. His book of columns and short essays is titled “Don’t Get Me Started.”

This month (year) marks the 50th anniversary of perhaps the greatest World Series ever played, featuring the Boston Red Sox and Cincinnati Reds. And Game 6 of that series was the showstopper, highlighted by Carlton Fisk’s dramatic 12th-inning home run.

I was living in Boston that year, and I can still recall the surge of electricity that flowed through that town. My excitement, however, was tempered by the death of my father that same year.

Like a lot of American males back then, baseball was the glue that cemented the bonds between my father and me.

As an adolescent boy, growing up in New York City, some of my fondest memories were eating peanuts with my father in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium, watching the ’62 World Series against the Giants and the’63 World Series against the Dodgers.

But the strongest bond between my father and I resulted from our actually playing baseball. On Saturday mornings, before anyone else was awake, the two of us would go to the schoolyard with a bat and a bunch of balls. He would pitch the balls to me, and I’d hit them all over the schoolyard. Then he’d have to retrieve them himself because there was no one else on the field.

All this effort paid off in my first Little League game when I actually fouled off a pitch in my very first at bat — before finally striking out. I’ve long since forgotten my first kiss, but I’ll never forget that first foul ball.

Fast forward to 1975. A month after my father’s death, I was back in Boston, still quite despondent, and feeling an overwhelming need to reconnect with him. As if on cue, the Red Sox were kind enough to be playing in the World Series that night.

I had befriended a 9-year-old boy that year, named Richie. He and his divorced mother lived in my apartment building. I asked her if I could take Richie to Fenway Park with me, even though there was no guarantee of getting in. The game was already sold out. And it was a school night.

“Please, Mom?”

“Oh … All right.”

Richie threw on his jacket and we bolted for Fenway Park faster than you could say “Carl Yastrzemski.”

When we got to Fenway, I was able to score us two seats for $75 from a ticket scalper. The seats weren’t great. But we were in.

It was Richie’s first Major League ballgame, so I had no idea how it would affect him. He was kind of a reserved child.

But that night he lit up like a pinball machine. He was blown away by everything — the hot dogs, the grass, the Green Monster, the scoreboard and especially the two guys who were sitting next to us. They took a real shine to Richie and entertained him through all 12 innings. Pure joy.

A lot of people remember Game 6 of the 1975 World Series for the great heroics on the field. But for that shy 9-year-old boy it will always be about the two friends he made that night who taught him how to have fun.

And for this 25-year-old boy? It was an unforgettable lesson in how to deal with death, while celebrating life.

I haven’t been to a Major League Baseball game since the early 1980s. Over the years, it got to be too expensive and too much of a hassle.

But I still love the game.

So whenever I feel the need to reconnect with my father, I just grab a bag of peanuts and head out to the nearest Little League field. If I’m lucky — if I’m really, really lucky — I’ll have the thrill of watching a young kid foul off his very first pitch. At that moment we’re all Carlton Fisk.

And that foul ball? It just won Game 6 of the 1975 World Series.