Since I was a 12-year-old, I have hated the New York Yankees. Deeply. Passionately. Viscerally. This dark emotion was born in the last two days of the 1949 baseball season when the Boston Red Sox went into Yankee Stadium for the final two games of the season. They were leading the American League by one game, so just one victory in those last two games would send them to the World Series. Of course, the Sox lost both games. (Notice that I will not say the Yankees won those final two games.) I heard it all on the radio. And I wept.
I have detested everything about the Yankees ever since: their swagger; their extravagant, taxpayer supported stadium; their pinstripe uniforms; their arrogant monuments in center field; their strutting third baseman, Alex Rodriguez; everything.
To this day, I never hear the Yankees mentioned on radio or TV without snarling a curse … or, if my wife is in the room, thinking it. (She’s quite certain the general state of my mental health would benefit if I would only agree to “talk to someone” about this.)
I am not alone, of course. I have a friend who never uses the word “Yankees” in his emails. Instead, it’s the “Evil Empire” or, more commonly, “the MFY”, an abbreviation about which I will offer no further clarification.
I was talking about this years ago with the late Ferd Borsch, longtime sportswriter with the Honolulu Advertiser and an old friend of mine, and I thought he put it rather well. “If the New York Yankees won on Opening Day and lost their entire remaining schedule, 161 consecutive losses,” he said, “I would begrudge them that one victory.”
Exactly. Damn straight. !#!&*! the Yankees!