Red Sox Fans Pray for October Miracle
Oct. 20, 2004 -- -- In the late 1970s there was a famous ad campaign to get people to visit New York. Remember "I Love New York ..." with the catchy, dreamy music?
In the Boston area where I grew up, there was a response on a bumper sticker that read, "I love New York, it's the Yankees I hate." As a displaced Bostonian now living in the Big Apple, that is exactly how I feel. I love being in New York, but I hate the Yankees. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them. A lot.
Does this mean I am immature, irrational and vindictive? Yeah, probably. But what can I do? The Yankees are responsible for three of the most painful, permanently scarring moments in my life.
1) 1978. I was in the first grade when the Red Sox and Yankees faced each other in the one-game playoff to decide the division. It was an afternoon game, and my public school held an assembly in the auditorium so we could all watch the beginning of the game. I still consider this to be the pinnacle of educational responsibility. I might have missed a lesson in reading or math, but I learned a much more important lesson: life isn't fair.
I took the bus home where my extended family was gathered to watch Bucky Dent hit a back-breaking home run with a corked bat (for the non-baseball fans out there, this means he was cheating.) I cried inconsolably for hours. Maybe days.
2) 1986. The ball went through Bill Buckner's legs. I had to miss a day of school. Now, I know this was the Mets and not the Yankees, but at this point in the 1980s, most Yankee fans had emigrated to the Mets and were front-running, so I blame the Yankees. What proof do I have of this? None. But I already admitted to being immature, irrational and vindictive, so what proof do I need?
3) 2003. Pedro implodes, Aaron Boone hits a walk-off home run. Within two days I went to Iraq. It was therapeutic. It seemed more comforting to be there, with bombs and kidnappings, than in New York with gloaters and goaders.
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