November 6, 2003

Yankees fans eat children

Get out of my way, all of you, because the Red Sox pain train is coming, and you don't want to be sitting on the tracks when it arrives.

Recently I decided to run a story written by a young and misguided woman of the New York persuasion that defended the New York Yankees in all their vileness. The reaction from the readership was swift and unpleasant. I am told that one former Maroon sports editor sent a nasty letter to the editor of the Viewpoints section from which "many obscenities were cut."

I have no idea whether the vulgar language was directed toward me or toward the article's author because, you see, I didn't read the letter. That's right. I don't care for any of your opinions, and I don't have to either. The happy truth is that this is my sports page for the next quarter-and-a-half, and none of you can touch it. So if I want to use a not-so-innocent Yankees fan as a pawn in a publicity stunt, then that's just what I'll do.

That said, I thought I might reassure those of you who think the Maroon has lost its pro-Boston bias by bringing back one of the Sports section's most classic columns. So, in case you ever doubted it before, let it be known to all the ends of the earth that I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate the New York Yankees…and the New York Mets!

Why throw the Mets into the mix? Because at least half of all people who consider themselves to be true Mets fans cast their lot with their more successful American League counterparts in a show of New York pride that made black bile spew forth from my mouth and nose. And when residents of northern New Jersey began to tag along as well, I retched for six hours straight, only to find that my stomach was as empty as a New Yorker's soul.

You tri-state louts are all a bunch of lascivious miscreants who will do anything to deflect the ire of baseball fans everywhere. You hold up signs reminding us that Joe Torre once had cancer, moan all day and about the lack of sympathy for Jorge Posada's family situation, and draw posters implying that hating the Yankees means not feeling bad about September 11. Have you no scruples? Have you no sense of decency? Of course you don't—that's what makes you a Yankees fan in the first place.

Am I some bitter Bostonian? You bet your ass I am! But what New York fans don't seem to realize is that everyone in the entire country—nay, the entire world—hates the Yankees. Japan is only using New York as a display case for their favorite native-born slugger, and most pro-Yankee Latin-American fans cheer for New York because they have family living in the metropolitan area. You Big Apple natives may have a late-October parade every few years, but you have it all by yourselves. Nobody loves you or your Grinch of an owner.

But there is a silver lining to this Zimmer-sized, Bronxian disaster, and my fellow New Englanders should play close attention at this point. Scientists studying the New York gene pool have isolated a mutation that occurs in just over 1 in 10 people. At an early age, these special New Yorkers realize that they are different from those around them, but they aren't sure as to what is going on inside their bodies.

After watching several seasons of baseball within the societal constraints of a Yankees hat, some of these fans with the mutated gene decide that they can no longer live a lie. And one day, as they are home alone watching a New York-Boston day game, their mothers and fathers arrive home unusually early, only to catch their children in an act so deliciously perverse that they can only stand gaping in stunned silence.

The children panic for a moment but soon become resolute. They clutch in defiance to their once-hidden baseball caps and trace the embroidered letter B with their fingers. They are Red Sox fans born into a world of pinstriped patriarchy, and I praise their courage to truly know and love themselves for what they are.

Soon, with help from new television shows like NBC's Red Sox For The Bronx Jocks, the entire city will welcome its Red Sox minority with open arms. Then, when we have lulled New York into a tacit state of acceptance, we will give their fans playoff heartbreak after playoff heartbreak and subjugate them into a caste of servitude for all eternity.

I shall now close this column with a pearl of wisdom given to me by the drunk guys in Fenway's right field grandstand: Yankees suck! Yankees suck! Yankees suck!