There is a fine line between good life and bad for a spectator. You can only choose your team and live your vicarious existence. The rest is up to them.
If they win, the world is your oyster. Strangers will slap fives with you merely because you're garbed in the same team apparel. To those who are cognizant of your allegiance, you are a sage. Others start to agree with your every opinion. They long to break the latest rumors heard overnight on JT the Brick just to get your reaction.
On the other hand, things are quite different when you back losers. Their failure makes you a failure. You are the butt of jokes at the water cooler the next morning. It's always "you blew another one last night" after the closer gets lit up, or "you guys will never appreciate the importance of pitching" when the front office trades a number-four starter for a fourth outfielder. Forget that the GM never checked with you first.
The latter is how other baseball partisans characterize the treatment they've received from Yankee Fan over the years, even as he has been paid the homage befitting a deity. Well, enough is enough. This year, I've decided to get my cut. That's right: the Evil Empire has just grown by one more.
Why not? The rules of engagement have never required me to declare an allegiance before my team is successful. Anyone can hitch on anytime. How do you suppose there came to be so many Yankees fans in the first place, especially in places like Arkansas and Des Moines and Butte, Montana?
Resistance to Emperor Steinbrenner each summer has finally fatigued me. I figure $200 million dollars can't always be wrong and if this should prove the year they're right, it will be with me. The Anakin Skywalker half of my soul is no more. With its exodus has come a new vigor.
Each morning, I no longer see in my mirror the image of a rank-and-file fan fretting over the uncertain twists of fate, but that of a World Series champion in waiting. That hack within me who once conspired random acts of defiance against the Death Star now carries the Force in all his actions. I no longer get laughed at by the cooler — minions bring my water to me, one Dixie cup at a time. All this by simply declaring for the Dark Side.
But it hasn't been as easy as I had imagined. The demands of aligning with an icon of American culture are great. If it were any other way, I suppose everyone would be a Yankees fan by now.
For instance, Yankees fans must possess an agility of affection and principle having no equal in baseball. Last spring's deadweight extortionist against whom we encouraged legal action has now become this spring's Giambino, the poster child of fortitude and resilience. At a moment's notice, we must embrace sworn enemies such as Alex Rodriguez and Randy Johnson and Johnny Damon that suddenly appear on our roster. Even now, I maintain a precarious balance atop the picket fence of Empire consensus as we await Roger Clemens' decision to become a Bronx folk hero or a Boston mercenary.
As a group, we see through a discerning eye with 20/20 vision. Items that appear indistinguishable to the untrained fan are quite discrete to us. Take steroids. Between Barry Bonds and Gary Sheffield lies a world of difference. The former is a contemptible cheat who testified that he used illegal enhancers to advance his abilities beyond those of law-abiding peers. The latter looks great in pinstripes.
Every Yankees fan is a vessel of history. Ours is a bounteous tradition, manifest in 26 rings whose memories are as clear as if they were the spoils of seasons just passed. It is our solemn duty to pass these memories on to our children so they too can experience the joy of victory that sets us apart from franchises like the Red Sox and White Sox, who win but once every 86 or 88 years.
One of the toughest adjustments during my conversion was in maintaining an even disposition. It's a long season and we are expected to comport ourselves with dignity in early April as we weather the frivolous revelry of Mets and Red Sox fans over their 11-4 starts. Admittedly, I wanted to scream in frustration, but what a rush it was to have our emotional abstinence broken last Sunday as the Big Unit held Orioles hitters to one run over eight innings. Back-to-back wins was cause for our masses to loot a few stores before hitting the Cross-Bronx Expressway for home. It may still be April, but it's late April.
Just as Orwell's Winston Smith could not die before loving Big Brother, I could not find new life as a Yankees fan before hating Boston. It wasn't so hard to do once I followed everyone's advice and used Curt Schilling as my focal point. I mean, first he's a starter, then a reliever, now a starter again. Make up your mind! Is he ever going to take the ball in a big game? Hell, there isn't a Yankees fan among us that hasn't had a little blood shed on his clothes, and a good many of us have stitched our skin into ridges that keep the tendons in place so we can hold a coin to rub our scratch tickets.
Another thing about Red Sox fans: it infuriates me when they bring up our unlimited budget. Whenever I hear this, I remind them that no team in baseball history ever spent as much as theirs did to win a World Series. That comment always elicits a smile from them — no doubt to hide embarrassment — then they move on. Consider yourselves put in place, Red Sox Nation.
Unless you are fortunate enough to be in my shoes, you cannot imagine the grace that must be summoned over the course of a regular season in the Bronx. Think back to one of those Christmases of youth when mom and dad gave you everything on your list. Then Uncle Frank came over — that would be dad's elder and favorite brother — and presented you a lousy Slinky. And it wasn't even wrapped. You had better look thankful or next Christmas would bring coal.
That's how it is for us after a typical three-game series against the Orioles or Devil Rays. These are never wrapped up, either. We know we're getting a sweep and if we don't gush over beating the crap out of teams filled with anonymous players, the Emperor won't buy us any more household names next year.
Fortunately, the schedule is filled with anonymous players on innocuous teams. It's what makes a New York summer such a joy and I for one plan to enjoy every minute of it. As for all you less fortunate partisans, may the Force be with you.
I know it will be for me.
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