There's no Crying in Baseball...except in New York

I was up to Hunting and Fishing camp the other day, with my Father-in-Law and his brother. We had just enjoyed a splendid day of Grouse hunting, basking in the crisp Autumn air and Golden sunlight of possibly the finest October day in recent memory. We were sitting around the wood stove, aglow from cheap Carlo Rossi wine and too many carbohydrates. We had just settled in to talking politics, when, suddenly, I remembered: the baseball play-offs. Of course, as you know, the beloved Olde Towne team is currently out of the picture. But, the next best thing was on: the Yankees of New York possibly going down in flames against the Tigers of Detroit. I just had to tune in. Which is easier said than done. Being within a Moose's sprint of the Quebec border, most respectable English speaking radio stations are way out of range. But thank God for AM Radio. I tuned in to 880 WCBS just in time to hear the last few innings of what turned out to be the latest play-off choke from Steinbrenner's overpaid minions of the mitt. I thoroughly enjoyed, all too much, hearing all the gory details of the latest melt down, and dire ramifications for next years' team. I could almost hear over the radio, the faint rumblings of Mount Steinbrenner, about to erupt, like Joe Pesci in Good Fellas, waitin' to fuckin' whack Joe Torre as he stepped from the clubhouse, after the loss.

I'll admit I felt a bit ashamed and petty sniffling back my baseball tears of joy, unwept since the miraculous Bosox banner year of '04. It seems, if the Red Flops cannot win, the next best thing would be for the Yankees to lose. As the saying goes, I root for two teams: the Red Sox and any team opposing the Yanks. I maintain that if you don't know what I'm talking about, if you don't feel the same petty way, you are not a true Red Sox fan. We're not used to winning, I'll admit it. But we are used to vendetta, revenge, curses: bizzare ways to explain why it is the baseball Gods are so unfair to us, Red Sox nation. I remember back when I was a kid, at my Grandparents' house, years ago, we were watching the Red Sox play the Yankees at Fenway. It was the bottom of the 9th, tie score, and my old Italian Nanny put the 'Mal Och', the fucking 'evil eye', on Thurmon Munson, a veritable Red Sox killer. "So it's down to this", I thought to myself, "the evil eye. Okay, I'm in".

Anyway, let me put it to you in terms you kids can understand. Let's say your Kevin Federline. And you're married to Brittany Spears. You've had your run; you've cut your album. You've been to all the A-List parties. But eventually, you know it's going to be over. So you and Brittany split up. You hop on the next train to Lonesometowne and watch on TV how Brittany is on tour in Australia, how Brittany is on the cover of People magazine, how Brittany is spotted at Spago's with George Clooney. It eats your fucking heart out. Wouldn't you rather hear that Brittany was dumped by Clooney? Wouldn't it be great to see her get caught for lip-synching on Saturday Night Live? Wouldn't it be awesome to hear her latest album is going down the toilet, especially after how hard you worked on your CD, and how it bombed so miserably? Look, for whatever reason, people seem to think Brittany Spears is hot, even though she is vaccuous and banal, where as you, Kevin Federline, are an aquired taste, a true original. You see where I'm going with this? I thought not. But nobody likes to see their ex- doing well, and I'll be damned if any Red Sox fan wants to see the Bronx Boners do any thing but choke like Mama Cass on a fuckin' chicken sandwich. That's just the way of the world. Pretty or not.

So now, I set my sights on the only other New York team that has a shot at greatness, the Metropolitans, and I remember with great bitterness the World Series of '86. I remember Buckner's Bungle, and I remember Mookie Fuckin' Wilson. I say now what only true Red Sox fans would yell out in a situation like this: GO TIGERS!!!

Oh yeah, and YANKEES SUCK!!