Long Island City, NY. October 23rd, 1996.
I was in my living room watching what appeared to be a routine Braves victory in game four of the World Series — a win that would have given them a 3-1 stranglehold over the New York Yankees with John Smoltz set to pitch game 5. The Braves were leading 6-0 going into the 6th inning and up until this point had they had little trouble containing the Yankees attack. Derek Jeter led off and hit a routine foul pop up which three Braves converged on. Somehow the umpire managed to get between the fielders, inadvertently obstructing the play. Jeter, with new life, singled, sparking a three run rally which brought the Yankees to within three. In the 8th I was still feeling good about the Braves chances when Yankee catcher Jim Leyritz tied the game with a 3 run home run to left. The game was won by the Yankees in the 10th and the Series, not to mention my life, had turned.
Andy Pettitte threw a 1-0 gem in game 5, and after a taut 3-2 win in game 6 the Yankees had their first championship in 18 years. I remember watching the clincher and thinking that I was happy for their fans who had recently suffered through some particularly lean years. It was good for New York, and anyway the Braves fans were obnoxious with that idiotic tomahawk chop.
Yet there was a feeling deep in the pit of my stomach which gnawed at me. The Yankees had won a Series in clutch fashion after being dominated at home during the first two games. Their key position players and pitchers were young or in their prime. What if? Could it happen? No, this was a fluke. Wasn’t it?
It was no fluke. The next year they were beaten by Cleveland in the first round thanks to a blown save by Mariano Rivera, but from that point on, until 2005, Mariano’s post-season ERA would be 0.00. From 2006 until the present his era is…0.00. In this span the Yankees have missed the playoffs once. They have won five Series and seven A.L. Pennants.
The years took on a Groundhogs Day sameness, each one ending with the parade down the canyon of heroes. My misery culminated in 2000, the year of the Subway Series. Up until that time I had rooted against the Yankees as an erstwhile fan of their opposing team. That year I was treated to a first-hand bitch-slapping as my Mets proved to be woefully inadequate. I hoped against hope for a miracle, but after Paul O’Neill’s 14 pitch at-bat off of Armando Benitez and the ensuing comeback, the knife was in — all that remained was the twisting. The next night a bat was hurled at Mike Piazza by a steroidally-enfused mercenary named Roger Clemens. (Thank you sir, may I have another?) The Mets were done and so was I.
Next year was even worse, even though the Yankees failed to four-peat against the expansion Arizona Diamondbacks. In the wake of September 11th, “We’re all Yankee fans now,” became America’s mantra. In the past I had been able to take a small measure of consolation in the fact that I was not alone in rooting against the Yankees. Now I was on an island with John McCain. Every game became an elegy to the bravery of New Yorkers — the Yankees were going to make us all forget about the recent tragedy. There was Giuliani with his shit-eating grin, the Yankee cap, and the fat son. Throw in the fighter planes, the opera singer, the God Bless America, and I was puking through my tears.
I look back at my smug, condescending 1996 self and I laugh. You poor, confused, naive dullard. But then I think that perhaps it was a good thing that there was one Yankee Series in which I did not scream obscenities at the TV, or feel the pre-ulcerous knot of tension in the pit of my stomach.
Since the middle of the 1990’s the Yankees have been a well-oiled, expertly handled organization. This does nothing to temper my hatred. You can call me a pathological, self-pitying, resentful bastard. It’s a moot point, though. Like Popeye, I yam what I yam — my hatred isn’t going anywhere. I have to live with it and accept that most Octobers will be gut wrenching experiences.
I’ll say this. Teams should be allowed to sign whomever they think will help them win, but here’s the thing: The Yankees have a payroll that is 40 million higher than the Redsox and 109 million higher than the team they just beat, the Twins. On top of this they are the favorite to sign ace pitcher Cliff Lee. They play by the rules and they’re a great organization, but don’t rub my face in it and ask me to like it. It’s a little hard to take.
OK, that’s it. I’m exhausted already. I now invite you all to let me have it. Come on, you know you want to. Just remember the first rule of Fight Club: You do not talk about Fight Club.

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