Posted on November 20, 2009 - by Jennifer

Why It’s Not Evil to Love the Yankees

As a Yankees fan living in Washington D.C., I always feel like I’m expected to apologize for liking the Yankees.  Even when I make all the right arguments –  my family is from New York, I was born in New Jersey, the Yankees are a huge part of the history and tradition of a game I love, Reggie Jackson was my first hero – none of it seems to matter.  People look at you like you’ve said, “Well, Hitler was trying to lead during difficult times” or “ We really should hear Bernie Madoff’s side of the story”.  At the very least, they want to know why an otherwise good and generally kind person would chose, CHOSE, the Yankees over all the other plucky, hardworking, underdogs in baseball. Here’s why.  To me, the Yankees are not George Steinbrenner.  They are not Alex Rodriguez.  They are not even Derek Jeter.  They are, to borrow a line from MLB, “beyond baseball.”

Like any baseball fan, I love the big plays.  I love watching Jeter dive into the stands after a ball, or Posada thwarting a would-be stolen base, or Rivera staring down a batter in the 9^th. And when I remember the 2009 World Series, I will remember A-Rod’s clutch home runs, Johnny Damon stealing bases, and Matsui homering off Martinez.  But a lifelong attachment to a particular baseball team doesn’t come from feats of athleticism or stellar stats.  When people remember a moment with “their” team, they remember where they were when it happened – anxious in a living room, screaming in a packed bar, shivering at a stadium.  They remember who was next to them- the stranger they hugged, the best friend they wept with, the peanut vendor who said, “There’s always next year.”  As a fan, you turn these moments and these feelings into a story and every year that story gets new characters and new twists.

In my story there are family car rides in our yellow VW Rabbit and my father and brother teaching me to recite Ruth, DiMaggio, and Mantle’s statistics.  In my story, I’m the girl growing up who wants to beat the boys at sports and hates being told she cannot do something. Naturally, I loved watching Reggie Jackson stand up to Steinbrenner, the media, and pretty much anyone else who got in his way!  In my story, I will always remember October of 2000 when the Yankees faced the Mets in the “Subway Series” and my brother gave up his ticket to Game 2 in Yankee Stadium so I could go. In my story, I will remember with pleasure the taste of the whiskey my father and I shared in the family living room when the Yankees finally won that series.  And l will feel bittersweet when I recall that we no longer own that house, so filled with our history.  In my story, when my grandfather falters after bypass surgery, we know he has fight left in him because he refuses to let anyone at the hospital take off his Yankees hat. In my story, it is my Yankees hat and my friend Priscilla’s Red Sox hat that lead to our meeting at the gym during the 2004 ALCS.  And in spite of the Yankees bitter loss to our hated rival, she and I became fast friends.  This year, she was a bridesmaid in my wedding.   And, although for her the pain of the Red Sox early exit from the post-season was still fresh, she still went with me to a bar for Game 2 of the ALCS and hung in through all 13 innings to see the Yankees win.

2009 was a memorable year for me.  On June 6, I got married and the Yankees lost to the Rays.  During my honeymoon, I insisted that my husband and I find a bar with the MLB package so I could watch the Yankees take on the Red Sox at Fenway in a 3 game series.  My very patient husband indulged me.  The Yankees did not, losing all three games. I forlornly declared that the season was over.  My husband suggested I was a bit premature.

Like the Yankees, I settled into a new house.  And when the Yankees won the World Series on Wednesday night, I was sitting on my new couch with my husband.  I was tense, like I have been during every game of the postseason.  During this game, I gnawed off my fingernails and chewed my lips to shreds.  I texted a few people but didn’t want to say too much or speak too soon.   When Rivera got the last out, my first feeling was relief.  It took a while for the joy to sink in. When it did, I started to talk to my family and friends, my fellow diehard Yankee fans.  None of us were together.  My brother was in LA, my sister in Baltimore, my friend Tony in New York, my friends Reese and Amy in Seattle.  But, in cities across America, we had all been holding our breath.   And, collectively, we were breathing a sigh of relief.  My husband was asleep and I had to wake him up to share the good news.  I think he said “Yay!” before his head dropped back down on the couch pillow.  Instead of my father’s whiskey I was drinking a Tuscan red from the charming café and wine shop down the street, a place where they now recognize us.  I raised my glass to Matsui who was accepting the MVP.  Matsui’s translator said that Matsui felt “awesome” and I wondered if there really was a word for “awesome” in Japanese?  More importantly, as the Yankees added World Series trophy number 27 to their collection, I added another chapter to my story.