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New York summer baseball tales for the telling:

1) My buddy, Billy, 65, had never received any communication from the Yankees. Not a letter, not an email, not a phone call. Not even a pocket schedule.

He had been a subscriber to a partial Mets ticket package, but dropped it years ago after he’d been financially abused and physically inconvenienced — those do-I or don’t-I go? long rain delays followed by postponements or late, late starts — once too often.

In fact, Billy’s the fellow who in the past reported that just a few yards from a Citi Field right-field billboard pitching “$5 Subway Footlong” sandwiches, stood a concession stand that at the time sold Subway $5 Footlongs for $14.

“Five dollars?” said the attendant as if Billy had arrived on the Village Idiot Van. “Not here they’re not.”

Still, Mets ticket reps continued and continue to pursue Billy’s business via phone calls and emails, as if he were a lamb briefly gone astray.

So last week, it struck him as odd to receive a direct, personal email at work from the Yankees, as if perhaps his address had been passed between teams by a third party seeking its cut of business he didn’t solicit.

The email, sent by the Yankees and electronically signed by a team sales rep, was a come-on to buy tickets to the Mets at Yankees series in August.

Given that Billy had conducted no previous business with the Yankees, he was astonished to read, “And I want to make sure you have first dibs on this offer!”

Fascinating. Billy had gone from non-person to a Yankees ticket VIP in the time it took to press “send.” And still, how did the Yankees suddenly have his email address?

He must buy a minimum of 10 seats to the elevated Delta suite for one of two late August games. Cost per ticket $375, thus a minimum layout of $3,750. Soda and “domestic beer” — is that U.S. domestic or Bronx domestic? — included through the “middle of the fifth inning,” but a cash bar throughout.

Billy will pass on this offer. But he’s mighty flattered the Yankees, 13-year home of the “Empty Good Seats,” hold him in such high and sudden regard.

That was what Bud Selig must’ve meant when he said interleague play “is a gift to our fans.”

2) Last Sunday, with the Rangers and Mets tied 1-1 in the top of the third, Texas had two out and runners on second and third when Corey Seager surrendered early on a ground ball hit to second baseman Luis Guillorme.

Had Seager run the entire way, he’d have been safe, as Guillorme dropped it before throwing him out.

“He could’ve gotten his team a run, with some hustle,” said Ron Darling. At least a run. And he didn’t have to hustle, just running would have done it.

Gary Cohen: “If you’re Corey Seager and you just signed a 10-year, $325 million contract, doesn’t that up the need to run hard to first base, every time?”

Darling: “I think there is a way that certain players play, and it doesn’t matter if the contract situation changes. They’re going to play the way they play.”

Of course, there’s always the shame-shame solution. Had Seager immediately been yanked from the game … But the game, as we know, has changed.

It Seems Roger Goodell, an incurable panderer to what leaves us all lower and lower, remains blindly and deafly attracted to the most vulgar, hateful, crotch-grabbing and women-objectifying rappers as the best representatives of the NFL’s social and entertainment initiatives and values.

On June 30, the NFL named Ice Cube to lead its “economic equity” plan to stimulate the NFL’s business with black-owned business.

Ice Cube, real name O’Shea Jackson, is a member of the Contract With Black America Institute, which supports reparations and affirmative action.

He’s also a racial hate-monger and devotee of proud, loud anti-Semite Louis Farrakhan. Ice Cube has rapped and spoken virulently anti-Jewish, anti-white and anti-Asian words, even advocating violence against them.

A sampler: In his early “songs” he referenced a Jewish music producer as “a white Jew” and a “cracker,” adding, “Get rid of that devil real simple. Put a bullet in his temple.” He has characterized an Asian shopkeeper as “little Chinese mother-f—er.”

As recently as 2020 Ice Cube posted anti-Semitic social media hatred while praising Farrakhan as his guiding light. How did the NFL miss this? Or is it that it didn’t look or didn’t choose to know?

Why would such a misanthrope even be considered for such a position?

But he’s just the guy for Goodell.

We well know by now that Goodell is a selective devotee of the corrosive double standard — a run-for-cover coward, buttressed by an equally frightened and cowardly news and sports media — as witnessed by Goodell’s silent indulgence of receiver DeSean Jackson after he circulated wildly reckless pro-Hitler messages pertaining to Jews as fed to him by the lunatic Farrakhan.

Jackson’s team at the time, the Eagles, eventually condemned Jackson’s hate-filled ignorance. The NFL? Still hasn’t been heard on the two-year-old matter, thus it’s reasonable to believe that we never will. Jackson just played on, no shame, no foul.

Same with the NFL’s growing crime problem, specifically players illegally packing guns. Goodell keeps pretending we can’t see what we can’t miss.

Yet, in Ice Cube, Goodell has found his latest embraceable malicious and malignant antisocial recording “artist” and activist to serve as an NFL justice-for-all front and business partner. How fast can the NFL, under Goodell, keep running backwards?

When the alphabetical history of how American pro sports devoured itself from the inside out, “Z” will likely include Zion Williamson.

After a one-and-done at Duke, Williamson was drafted first overall by the Pelicans in the 2019 draft. He signed for $10 million per season.

That preseason, he tore his right meniscus, missing the first three months of his rookie year. Despite appearing overweight and out of shape, he scored at least 20 points in four consecutive games. Up, up and away!

But last summer, Williamson broke his foot while working out. Eventually, the Pelicans said he would miss the entire season.

So in three NBA seasons, Williamson, tormented by injuries and slow to heal, had played just 85 games of a possible 226, zero last season.

Those who purchased season- or partial-season-tickets to Pelicans games based on Williamson’s presence last season were skunked at an average of $150 per ticket — as if many attend alone — a high of $950 and a low of $37.

But now they have another chance.

Last week, Williamson signed a five-year extension with the Pelicans for $193 million, guaranteed, with All-Star team incentives that could make the deal worth $231 million. And that doesn’t include his $75 million sneaker deal.

I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.

Gee, whatever happened to those absurd “catch probability” percentage stats ESPN tried to popularize and legitimize by trying to make all circumstances and players the same, as if games are played in sealed test tubes?

So until further notice, we return to the previous math: Catches that are made have a catch probability of 100 percent. Those that aren’t have a catch probability of 0 percent.