I love New York. It’s the greatest city in the world. What
other city can boast having an inspirational song by Frank Sinatra?
I mean, Los Angeles has Randy Newman and Denver has John Denver,
but no one measures up to the Godfather.
New York City is also home to the greatest sports fans in the
world. Of course they’re unruly, but only true fans are,
which makes Los Angeles fans the most orderly, law-abiding people
in the United States.
Because of tremendous fan influence and involvement, New York
has bred some of the finest rivalries in sports.
I recently visited New York City, allegedly the city that never
sleeps, but then I’d be hard-pressed to come up with an
explanation of what that smelly, fat guy was doing next to me on
the subway. Last week, I had the chance to attend another chapter
of the greatest one-sided rivalry in sports: the Boston Red Sox v.
the New York Yankees at historic Yankee Stadium. Let me take the
time to point out that if you ever get the opportunity to attend a
game at Yankee Stadium, the experience is worth every penny of the
price of admission.
First, Yankee Stadium features several phenomenons that I found
lacking during my experiences at Dodger Stadium, namely, cheering,
runs and fans who stay.
Now, the Red Sox haven’t won a World Series since selling
off Babe Ruth to the Yankees in 1918 for a bag of deodorant and a
nice pair of shoes (or the modern-day cash equivalent). The Yankees
have won the most professional titles in American sports, 26. The
Yankees have time and time again snatched away hope, trust and even
a reason to live from every Red Sox fan.
There’s no love lost between New York fans and Boston
fans. Instead, maturity, sportsmanship and next week’s
drinking money is lost.
I knew it was an important game from the start. The Red Sox were
only three games behind the Yankees and were sending the best
pitcher in baseball and the scariest 150-pound man in the world,
Pedro Martinez, to combat baseball’s deadliest offense.
People would be on edge for this one.
To my disappointment, the stadium didn’t sell beer in the
bleachers. I guess alcohol has a tendency to cause reckless fan
behavior. Thank heavens we figured that out. I was prepared to
blame the sun for that unduly stench of alcohol and fans yelling
that the opposing right fielder should have sex with his mother
““Â only they used different words.
Sans alcohol, I figured Yankee fans were still passionate enough
about the rivalry that I’d get some interesting verbiage. We
sat down in some incredible seats, and before I could soak up the
smell of peanuts and the interesting leftovers in front of my seat,
PLUNK. Martinez hit Yankee star Alfonso Soriano.
Okay, somewhat forgivable; let’s get on with the game.
Next pitch, Martinez hit Yankee superstar Derek Jeter.
Mispronounce a cab driver’s name, no big deal.
Cut someone off in a car, happens all the time.
Hit Derek Jeter, and you have committed the most sacrilegious
act anyone can fathom against the New York community.
“Hey Pedro, you looking for a fight?” an incensed
fan screamed. “I’ll fight you; I’ll fight you and
every one of your brothers.” Considering that the fan was
packing heat and all the Martinez brothers have are baseballs to
defend them, I’ll put my money on the fan. I knew I’d
learn something from watching “Indiana Jones.”
The game turned into a pitcher’s duel, and was intense for
every minute. In the sixth inning, with a runner in scoring
position, New York’s Todd Zeile came to the plate. Already
having struck out once, Zeile struck out again, this time on three
quick pitches. It’s nice he’s brought something to the
Yankees that he learned from the Dodgers.
“He couldn’t hit the ball if my grandmother was
pitching,” said an elderly fan whose grandmother could
conceivably be pushing 127 years old.
I guess it’s a pattern to incorporate family into New York
sports.
The critical game ended on a Boston error, and their sad saga of
embarrassment under pressure in New York City continued. The
Yankees won the game 2-1, and Boston fans returned to their holes
in the wall with their tails tucked between their legs yet
again.
While leaving the stadium on a little highway I like to call
“The Parking Lot,” fans on top of parking structures
were yelling obscenities to every person sporting Boston gear
walking below them.
Though most of the exchanges featured four-letter words most
golfers yell after every wayward shot, one intoxicated fan yelled,
“The Boston Red Sox are terrible; they couldn’t beat my
son’s little league team. But they’re not as bad as the
Mets.”
Only a New Yorker could be drunk, logical, obnoxious and
intelligent, all in the same breath.