Perhaps it’s the amateur historian in me, but I gravitate to people who have experienced first-hand things I wish I had, too. Bobby Thomson’s game-ending home run that won the 1951 National League pennant for the New York Giants — and made a goat out of Ralph Branca of the Brooklyn Dodgers — is one of those experiences.

But rather than seek out Thomson (who died last year) or Branca, who lives in Connecticut, to talk about the events of 60 years ago, I have been more intrigued by the joy or heartbreak that the fans must have felt that day.

This is partly because my dad rooted for the Giants even though he grew up in Brooklyn. Recently, I peppered him with questions about where he was that day and sent him a copy of Branca’s new book, “A Moment in Time,” to jar his memory a bit. His responses reminded me that sports teams leave an indelible imprint on fans, regardless of their age, and that fans come to root for teams in all sorts of serendipitous ways and for all sorts of reasons. The parallels to my own rooting interests, it turns out, are eerily similar.

It turns out that my dad became a Giants fan when he was about 10. Marty Sklar, who sat in front of him at P.S. 197, showed him a pen and pencil that were shaped like Louisville Slugger bats and had “Giants” written on them. Marty bought them at the Polo Grounds.

My dad liked them and became curious about the Giants, so he went to the library and took out a biography of John McGraw. “It was loaded with details of all the ballplayers I knew,” he told me over lunch recently. “After that, Marty and I became good friends. We were the only Giants fans we knew in Brooklyn.”

My dad only went to the Polo Grounds once. When he was in the eighth grade, he and a group of crossing guards were invited to a Giants game. My dad recalled the subway ride to the stadium, but not much about the game. He did, however, see the Giants play in Brooklyn during one of his many visits to Ebbets Field, where he sat in the bleachers or in my grandfather’s seats along the third-base line.

“At the Dodger games, I would root for the other team, whoever it was,” he said. “I remember Bill Rigney (an infielder for the Giants) hit the first pitch over the wall for a home run and the Giants won 11-1,” he added, his eyes twinkling.

I’d like to think my dad was huddled around a radio with his friend Marty, listening to that famous Giants-Dodgers game in 1951. Alas, he was getting a cavity filled at his dentist’s office on Kings Highway. He doesn’t remember whether he heard the call of the famous home run in the dentist’s office or after he left.

“But when I got down to the street, there was no one there, so I couldn’t talk to anyone,” he said.

I had a flashback to Oct. 27, 1986. I was in college in Oregon, and the Mets had just beaten the Boston Red Sox to win the World Series. I danced around my dorm room, called my brother on the pay phone in the hallway and ran outside looking to celebrate. I found exactly no one, a real downer.

My dad’s reaction to the Branca book was more startling. Not surprisingly, the book discusses Branca’s fateful role in the drama and the abuse he took for years for having thrown the pitch that Thomson hit at the Polo Grounds. Branca also talks at length about how he found out the Giants were stealing signs that year and how he never complained because he did not want to seem like a spoilsport.

But in 2006, after Joshua Prager wrote “The Echoing Green,” which details the Giants’ sign-stealing escapades, Branca finally felt compelled to talk. And in the book he says in no uncertain terms, “In 1951, the Giants didn’t win the pennant; the Giants stole the pennant.”

My dad said that intellectually, he could accept that it was physically possible for the Giants to steal signs. But, he said with the sincerity of a Giants fan who has basked in the glow of that pennant for years, “If I believe that, all my dreams are gone.”

Perhaps it’s the amateur historian in me, but I gravitate to people who have experienced first-hand things I wish I had, too. Bobby Thomson’s game-ending home run that won the 1951 National League pennant for the New York Giants — and made a goat out of Ralph Branca of the Brooklyn Dodgers — is one of those experiences.

But rather than seek out Thomson (who died last year) or Branca, who lives in Connecticut, to talk about the events of 60 years ago, I have been more intrigued by the joy or heartbreak that the fans must have felt that day.

This is partly because my dad rooted for the Giants even though he grew up in Brooklyn. Recently, I peppered him with questions about where he was that day and sent him a copy of Branca’s new book, “A Moment in Time,” to jar his memory a bit. His responses reminded me that sports teams leave an indelible imprint on fans, regardless of their age, and that fans come to root for teams in all sorts of serendipitous ways and for all sorts of reasons. The parallels to my own rooting interests, it turns out, are eerily similar.

It turns out that my dad became a Giants fan when he was about 10. Marty Sklar, who sat in front of him at P.S. 197, showed him a pen and pencil that were shaped like Louisville Slugger bats and had “Giants” written on them. Marty bought them at the Polo Grounds.

My dad liked them and became curious about the Giants, so he went to the library and took out a biography of John McGraw. “It was loaded with details of all the ballplayers I knew,” he told me over lunch recently. “After that, Marty and I became good friends. We were the only Giants fans we knew in Brooklyn.”

My dad only went to the Polo Grounds once. When he was in the eighth grade, he and a group of crossing guards were invited to a Giants game. My dad recalled the subway ride to the stadium, but not much about the game. He did, however, see the Giants play in Brooklyn during one of his many visits to Ebbets Field, where he sat in the bleachers or in my grandfather’s seats along the third-base line.

“At the Dodger games, I would root for the other team, whoever it was,” he said. “I remember Bill Rigney (an infielder for the Giants) hit the first pitch over the wall for a home run and the Giants won 11-1,” he added, his eyes twinkling.

I’d like to think my dad was huddled around a radio with his friend Marty, listening to that famous Giants-Dodgers game in 1951. Alas, he was getting a cavity filled at his dentist’s office on Kings Highway. He doesn’t remember whether he heard the call of the famous home run in the dentist’s office or after he left.

“But when I got down to the street, there was no one there, so I couldn’t talk to anyone,” he said.

I had a flashback to Oct. 27, 1986. I was in college in Oregon, and the Mets had just beaten the Boston Red Sox to win the World Series. I danced around my dorm room, called my brother on the pay phone in the hallway and ran outside looking to celebrate. I found exactly no one, a real downer.

My dad’s reaction to the Branca book was more startling. Not surprisingly, the book discusses Branca’s fateful role in the drama and the abuse he took for years for having thrown the pitch that Thomson hit at the Polo Grounds. Branca also talks at length about how he found out the Giants were stealing signs that year and how he never complained because he did not want to seem like a spoilsport.

But in 2006, after Joshua Prager wrote “The Echoing Green,” which details the Giants’ sign-stealing escapades, Branca finally felt compelled to talk. And in the book he says in no uncertain terms, “In 1951, the Giants didn’t win the pennant; the Giants stole the pennant.”

My dad said that intellectually, he could accept that it was physically possible for the Giants to steal signs. But, he said with the sincerity of a Giants fan who has basked in the glow of that pennant for years, “If I believe that, all my dreams are gone.”