Confessions of a Yankee Fan

For a die-hard Yankee fan, having to spend the summer in Beantown is about as bad as Oliver Barrett III having to attend law school in New Haven.

With two roommates from Baltimore sending warm greetings via Earl Weaver, and hoards of Bostonians laughing at the slumping Yankees, it seemed all too fitting that my summer ended up being limited to New England weather, jogging along the Charles, and work. But after hours of boredom and months of humiliation. I finally found an activity even more exciting than yelling "LOUU, LOUUU, LOUUU" at Yankee Stadium. Why not become a Fenway junkie and root against the Red Sox?

So with the O's 11 games up on the Yanks--the Red Sox seven--and a black tie dinner at The Ritz in October at stake with my roommates, I paid my quarter and boarded the Red Line bound for Kenmore Sq. As I switched to the trolley at Park St., more and more passengers sporting the Fenway look pushed, shoved and crowded around me. Blue and red helmets, sweatshirts, Red Sox painter's caps, and almost any other type of paraphernalia imaginable cluttered my vision--all emblazoned with that hated "B." As the trolley rattled closer to Kenmore Square, I resisted a compulsion to yell "Boomer" at the top of my lungs (the once-beloved Red Sox first basemen who popularized the 'George Scott double-play').

Once above ground, the crowd became a herd of red-and-blue, thousands of Sox fans closing in on that small stadium. Immediately I was accosted by a vendor peddling Red Sox painter's caps. This was my big chance, the opportunity to finally live out my Yankee allegiance. Would I mutter some slur under my breath, or would I bite the bullet and merely say I was a New Yorker, preferring to wear pinstripes? Of course, I did neither. What would later turn out to be the story of the day had begun. I sheepishly said, "No thanks," and continued towards the stadium.

The next encounter with the other species came only a few steps later, almost drawing the Gossage-Johnson instinct right out of my skin. At this stand, peddlers selling shirts proclaiming "Yankee fans bite the apple," and "The only good Yankee is a dead one" were quickly closing in on the Fortune 500.

Already my Yankee enthusiasm (or rather my Red Sox apathy) had undergone a disastrous blow. And I hadn't even reached the box office yet. I began wondering if my Yankee loyalty was authentic or if it was merely a circumstance of being raised in upstate New York. Could it be that I never had been exposed to the "thrill" of Fenway? The Green Monster, Fenway Franks, bleacher anarchy, unrestrained fans, and nearly as much tradition as in The Big Apple? For a while I was scared. But when I finally entered the Park and gazed over the infield, I realized that I was intimidated by all these people who were--unanimously--more partial to the Red Sox than I was to the Bronx Bombers. I was overtaken by the emotional arrogance these people generated. All this and I had just seen my first pitch delivered.

By now my plan for the game had quickly subsided. I was all set for a quiet afternoon of good baseball. Inside I would hope for a Kansas City victory, but outwardly, I would look like an unloyal Bostonian.

By the time I reached my seat, the Royals were ahead 2-0. The top of the first and the Sox were already losing. I settled into my seat down the left field line and watched Remy, Hobson, Lynn, and "the Olde Towne team" go down without posing a threat. The game rolled on without excitement for the hometown fans through eight innings. I was beginning to re-evaluate my impression of the Boston fan at this point. Down 4-2 and no more than a few curses shouted at the umps, only an occasional customary slur shouted at George Scott; echoes of "cold beah heah" were all the fans enjoyed.

But in the bottom of the eighth inning, the spirit I wished did not exist had resurfaced. With the score now tied 4-4, Jim Rice reached first and Yaz walked to put men on first and second. Bob Watson then singled to right, driving in Rice and putting the Sox in the lead for the first time. The crowd erupted. A few seats behind me, a teenager set off a pack of firecrackers and was subsequently arrested by Fenway's overbearing security guards. It turned out that Watson's hit was all the Sox needed as they went on to win 5-4.

As I watched the fans file out of the stadium, I sensed they were not impressed or overjoyed. For them, this was not a performance worthy of a Boston team. It was just another win--nothing more, nothing less. Not a win to compare with their numerous playoff victories or a loss comparable to that at the hands of the Yanks last October (a fond memory of a Fenway day of despair).

So as I left the home of the enemy, I began to realize what Fenway was to that famed Boston fan. The same fan who squelched my overzealous animosity towards their team, and the same fan who did not accept a mere win as excellence. But rather the fan who looks for the sound thrashing of an opponent as something to talk about. Perhaps I had tasted the real flavor of Fenway.