Yankee Hater

That's me in the center looking like I am passing a kidney stone.

And here's me again, making an obscene gesture in a public place.

Why such a sourpuss? Why such crass behavior? Because I am a hate-filled Yankee hater surrounded by intolerable Yankee fans in the cursed Yankee Stadium. I am Zacharais Moussaui in the court of the infidels. I am also sobering up from pre-game, unable and unwilling to fork over $8.50 to the Evil Empire for a Coors Light in a plastic bottle. So, pardon me. Or don't.

The too-tan guy (top photo, front right) is Ted, is a sailboat captain from Maui, a good friend, despite being a Yankee fan. Like the Old Man from the Old Man and the Sea who followed the exploits of "the great Dimaggio" from the docks of Havana, Ted admires "the great Jeter" and "the great Rivera" from his dock in Lahaina. He has a thing for greatness, I guess. Before the Yankees his last obsession was the Bulls of "the great Jordan".

Why go watch the Yankees if you hate them so much? Fair question. As a rule, I steer clear of the Stadium, I even turned down free tickets to Game 3 of the 2001 World Series, but Ted had come so far and wanted to see his heroes stalk their native habitat with such a childlike sincerity that I couldn't let him down. It was like a trip to Mecca for him, unfortunately, his wingman was an Orthodox Jew. But, it was a perfect September night, my very pregnant wife had granted me a rare pass out of the house (it could be my last ballgame for years), and there was always the chance that the Yankees would lose.

How bad could it be, anyway? From the moment we entered the parking lot, Ted made it clear he was going to make it as bad as possible. I rolled my eyes as he told the lot attendant, a black girl who probably steered SUVs into the proper spot as a 4th job, that this was his first visit to Yankee Stadium. Really? Well, have fun. I winced and backed away as he walked alongside three Jersey girls: Giambi, Rodriguez, and Jeter, according to their uniforms, and told them how happy he was to be here, his first time at Yankee Stadium. Oh yeah? How exciting. They quickened their pace.

Although I didn't know what to make of girls who would go to a ballgame unchaperoned (a girl in Shea did not pay for her ticket), I was proud of them for turning a cold Yankee shoulder to Ted's friendly advances. In Hawaii, they have a social code called "Aloha", which means smile and be warm and friendly to everyone. Ted felt it was his duty to bring "Aloha" to New York, but here we already have a code called "What the fuck are you looking at?" which means avoid unnecessary eye contact and mind your business.

Ted wanted to spread his Aloha while in the city, stopping to ask a silly question or request a photo with every Benjamin, Jermaine, and Xiao we passed on the street, which made it impossible to get anywhere. He is also too tan for Manhattan, and his flip-flops and surf shorts, which look cool in Hawaii, don't cut it in Soho. If this sounds a little harsh, keep in mind that Captain Ted and his crew make a daily sport of mocking the "tourons" (many of them New Yorkers) that bombard him with stupid questions, like "Are those real dolphins?" (Also, to be fair, when I came back to NYC from two years in Hawaii, I stubbornly continued to wear flowered shirts and flip-flops until one hot humid day when I stepped in an bag on the sidewalk full of an oily, cheesy mystery substance and had to walk 15 slimy blocks to reach a shower.)

The code of Aloha did not require Ted to squeal like a male cheerleader, repeatedly hollering "Whoo-hooo!" loud enough to make small children squeeze their daddy's hands in alarm as we neared the park. That was his own touch. All this overexcitement for a regular season game, against the pathetic Orioles. And it wasn't even happy hour yet.

Ahhh, happy hour. That was a big draw for me. I was aware that, unlike Shea, which is surrounded by seagull-filled parking lots and junkyards, Yankee Stadium had real bars with real beer right across the street. We were early, and I intended to get as happy as possible before I boarded the Death Star. But first, Ted wanted to walk around the Yankee pavilion first, shop at the Yankee store, soak up the atmosphere.

I had given George Steinbrenner enough of my money for one lifetime, so while Ted shopped, I went across the street, off Yankee property, for a $2 pretzel in lieu of the $4 official Yankee version. Eating my dinner, I observed mindless Yankee drones drifting about, almost all of them wearing pinstripes, or a famous name and number, looking smugly convinced that they were winners by association. My Mets visor (I look absurd in a visor, but I had to represent) was the lone fashion dissension in the promenade.

When Ted finally came out of the store, he wanted to take pictures, and I said that he could take pictures in the bar. Which he proceeded to do, to my amazement/chagrin. Mr. Aloha became obsessed with one very large Yankee fan, and he wanted me to pose for a picture with him, insisting that we looked like long lost brothers.

Score one for Ted. (Score two, actually. He has previously told me that I was just like "Frank the Tank" from Old School. When I finally got around to seeing the movie, it was hard to feel flattered by the comparison.) Anyway, I refused to pose with Big Red. I was there to drink and watch baseball, not to model, and I'm sure this guy felt the same way, but Ted tapped Big Red on the shoulder and got his shot with me in the background. Ted, for better or worse, simply doesn't care how you are or are not supposed to act in New York. As exhibit B, I present Ted resting on the LIRR on a previous visit:

I would gladly have stayed in the bar all night. I mean, it had a bowling alley in the back! I suggested we scalp our tickets and spend the bounty on pitchers of beer and rented shoes, but Ted was determined to get into Yankeeland well before the first pitch.

Though the proximity of the bar to my seat was uplifting, any fears I had of being seduced by the Yankee mystique vanished once I pushed through the turnstiles and took my seat. To revisit the Star Wars analogy, the evening was like being trapped in the trash compactor with noxious refuse and slimy beasts, the walls closing in slowly and inexorably. The Yankees themselves I have no problem with, but unfortunately, my seat was not in their dugout, it was in a too-expensive section amidst a sea of senseless, spoiled Yankee fans. Drinking beer and breaking peanuts with the enemy did not soften my disdain, if anything, it made me hate them more.

Why I Hate the Yankees

Let's clarify and explain. I don't hate "the Yankees" for their greatness. I hate most Yankee fans for their arrogant obliviousness. The foundation of this hatred was poured during my childhood as a Mets fan, arguing with obnoxious little Yankees lovers like Rob Julianelle and Jeff Press who somehow managed to maintain an air of inherited superiority rooting for their mediocre 80's Yanks while my team won a World Series in dramatic fashion. ("That's two for you. Only 20 more and you'll be even.")

Then came the 90s, and the Yankees rise and great run of 1996-2000, 4 championships in 5 years. Part of me was a little happy for Rob and Jeff. Wherever they were, they had faithfully endured more suffering than any Yankee fan was supposed to endure, and this was their due. But what of this sudden legion of diehards drowning the bars in Yankee blue every October? You were always a Yankee fan? And you? And you? And you? Really? Are you sure you are not just a fan of drunken midnight celebrations? It would be okay to admit that, you know.

The late 90's Yankees players, however, were too great too hate. Derek, Tino, Paul, Bernie, Jorge, et. al. were an impeccable, gallant bunch. They were a true team composed of true ballplayers, none of them were superstars, so any of them could, and would, be the star on any given night. It was an organic movement, the heart of the team had come up through the Yankees farm system. Their role players were gritty and clutch, and my favorite Mets from the 80's: Doc Gooden, Darryl Strawberry, and David Cone, kept popping up in pinstripes and performing in big spots. I might have jumped on the bandwagon then, too, but the Mets and I had too much history, and no matter how horrible things were at the time, we were going to work things out.

And we did. Well, we almost did. In 2000, we were surprised to suddenly find ourselves with a shot at the champs in the Subway Series. The best thing about the confrontation, from a Mets fan's persepective, is that we were beaten with a merciful quickness and efficiency. The seeds of true Yankee hatred, however, were planted early in Game 2 by Roger Clemens. The Rocket, who was a Red Sock, really, though the Yankees had bought him and claimed his as their own, grabbed a jagged piece of Mike Piazza's broken bat after a foul ball and hurled it at Piazza. This was after he had knocked out Piazza with a fastball to the head earlier in the season. It was boorish, unprecedented, inexplicable bullying behavior, though now, with the steroid controversy out in the open, it seems obvious that Roger was in the throes of a 'roid rage. Piazza was too stunned, or too chicken, to respond. The umps were too intimated and stunned to kick Roger out of the game, the Yankees went on to win the game, and the series, but they lost something in that ugly display by their hired gun: their right to the throne, perhaps, my respect, for sure. I have been as much Met fan as Yankee hater ever since.

Roger Clemens ushered in a new Yankee era, the mercenary, post-dynasty, win-at-all costs era. Champion teams, even the Yankees, usually have a shelf life. The core that made them great splits up, passes their prime, and dissolves back into mediocrity. For most teams, a five year run is unthinkable because after just one championship everyone wants and deserves a hefty raise for their contributions, and most teams simply can't afford the keep everybody happy and on board. The Yankees, who dominate the biggest market, don't have this problem. More winning meant more ticket sales, merchandising, and TV revenue, they have never had to lose a core Yankee to a team with a better offer.

George Steinbrenner, who had been a very sore loser for a very long time, was now a winner. Classic autocrat that he is, he had no interest in his long-awaited dynasty flickering out. He also had his own new Cable Channel devoted to the Yankees, the YES Network, that would generate revenue in direct correlation with the Yankees ability to generate wins. Fading dynasties, down years, rebuilding, they were not an option, and they were no longer necessary.

The plan was simple, as parts of the machine begin to show signs of rust (Paul O'Neil, Tino Martinez, "El Duque" Hernandez, David Cone), replace them with shiny new superstars in the offseason at any cost. (If you have to ask how much A-Rod costs, you can't afford him.) George began collecting an impressive gallery of MVP's and Cy Youngs. First, of course, was Roger, a 5 time Cy Young award winner, brought in to bolster the pitching staff in 1999. The Yankees won two World Series with Clemens as the ace, but when they lost to the Diamondbacks in 2001, Jason Giambi, the 2001 AL MVP, was promptly acquired for 2002. In 2002, the Yankees lost in the first round to the Angels. In 2003, George went to Japan to buy Hideki Matsui, a 3 time Japanese MVP. Again, close, but no cigar. Unease, if not panic, crept in among the Yankee brass. In 2004, they signed Gary Sheffield, the 2003 NL MVP runnner-up AND traded for Alex Rodriguez, the reigning AL MVP and greatest all-around player in baseball, mostly because the Rangers ran out of ink writing the checks in his $250 million contract. They lost again, this time to the hated Red Sox, so they went out and dump nothing players for a pitcher too pricey for his small-market team, 5 time Cy Young winner Randy Johnson, a guy who hates New York but likes his $16 million paycheck.

The Yankees payroll, circa 2005, now tops $200 million dollars. This dwarfs the median salary of teams like the Tigers ($69 mil) and Padres ($63 mil). It's $80 million more than the next most profligate team, the Red Sox, who have been dragged by the Bombers into a heated arms race. It is twice as much as the next highest team, my once underdog, now underachieving Mets, who also feel forced to compete for attention with their crosstown shopping rivals. It is almost 7 times as much as the poor Tampa Bay Devil Rays ($29 mil), who, as a fledging club, barely spend about as much on their crew of 25 as the Yanks spend on their 3rd baseman, and have been trapped in the cellar of the Yankees and Red Sox division for their entire life. How could you not be a little happy for the D-Rays when they beat the Yankees 11 out of 19 times last year? How could you not take delight when this overpaid, overloaded bunch of bats for hire fell a second time to the Angels with a bunch of bumbling plays in the field and fruitless at-bats in the clutch?

The Yankees, after this fifth post-season dissappointment in a row, were less acquisitive in the off-season. Still, Bernie Williams, one of the charter members of the dynasty, was ready for pasture. The team needed a centerfielder and a leadoff hitter, so they stole Johnny Damon, not only the best centerfielding lead-off man available, but also a bearded, long-haired, rebel RED SOCK! They offered Damon $52 million over 4 years...far more than anyone else was going to give him, and he shaved his beard, got a haircut, (the Yankees have strict grooming policies) and put on the pinstripes. And so it goes.

Steinbrenner's new carte blanche business model works, to an extent. The Yankees drew over 4 million fans to their park last year, they even pulled me in. They sold lots of Giambi, Jeter, and Rodriquez jerseys to lots of tools dressing up like winners and hormone-addled daddy's girls. They made money by spending money, and there is no reason for them to stop. With the talent they have, and will continue to have as long as they have the most money, they will have playoff tickets to sell every year, and be favored to win it all every year. The only intrigue then, is will they or will they not win the World Series. For the past five years, the answer has been "will not", and I have been glued to the drama, cheering whatever dragon slayer emerges (Schilling, K-Rod, Beckett, Schilling, A-Rod himself) to send the Yankees back home to their mansions, green tails between their legs.

Though we Yankee haters can take some solace in their repeated failure to reclaim the mountaintop (and in the mounting frustration of the Y- fans, who see anything short of a crown as abject failure), I can't say I like what it does to baseball. It is free agency run amok that I really object to, the lazy attempts to buy a good team every December rather than build good teams by developing young players that fans can grow to love. A growing number of richer teams (the Mets, Angels, Red Sox, Orioles, Blue Jays, Cardinals) have felt obligated to adopt the Yankee strategy to keep up, and they cherry pick rising stars from the same poorer clubs (the A's, Expos, Marlins, and Mariners being prime examples). The poorest clubs (the Devil Rays, Royals, Pirates, and Brewers) begin each year with the slimmest of hopes, which are usually crushed by June. This lack of parity, loyalty, and continuity is what's most wrong with baseball. If Damon will switch for a few extra bucks, what does the rivalry mean, exactly? Steinbrenner is simply making the most of a broken system. I don't hate him or his players, who are mostly unhatable. I blame the Yankee fan who doesn't object to this new, jaded way of winning, and who supports it by feeding the beast with his hard-earned dollars. I hate the fan who cares more about winning than about good baseball, and I'm sorry, but if you are still a Yankee fan, that describes you, otherwise you would have jumped ship long ago.

Back to the Stadium, and Ted...

snapping photos of unforgettable moments like Hideki Matsui stretching his hamstrings. Behind me was a yupplet blond assistant-type who had come alone, though she carried on a 4 inning cell-phone conversation about a photo shoot for Maxim involving a young starlet whose mother didn't want the shot to be too risque. This was exactly the type of crap you go to a baseball game to get away from! In front were a pair of younger college-age couples, clearly occupying the alpha male's father's corporate seats, reminiscing about undeserved good-times at the same father's summer house at the Jersey Shore. There were quite a few Asians scattered about, like Ted, they were there to pay homage to the great Yankees of New York. The one blessing was that the two seats next to us were unoccupied. After the second inning, we were just about to spread out when a pair of ambitious poachers came down the aisle and filled in the seats, leaving us landlocked and crowded. Irritated and unfiltered, I grumbled too loud that those weren't even their seats and the Ted had to do some quick Yankee fan to Yankee fan smoothing over to avoid a scene (normally Ted would love a fight, but he didn't want to get kicked out of his Yankee Stadium.)

Now I was officially surrounded by assholes. No one seemed to have any interest or concern for the nuances of the game, pitch counts, situations, etc. There wasn't an ounce of passion in the place. They stood to cheer at the crack of a homer (there must have been six or seven), and waited for Rivera to come in and seal the game and the Yankees to win and Sinatra to sing "New York, New York."

I waited, too. I wanted the Yankees to put the game away so we could leave early, but their awful relief pitchers let the lowly O's back in it again and again. The game went on for close to four hours. Ted finally caved in to use the restroom, and missed the only truly compelling moment of the night. The great Jeter deigned to slice off a foul ball my way. Maybe he was trying to hit me, the lone heretic, but I had it tracked the whole way, the first good shot at a foul ball in at least thirty ballgames. I had to reach over a Korean girl in front of me, but I got it, "Thwack", right into my palm.

Ted came back and couldn't believe it. "Jeter? Right here?" He had to check with other Yankee fans to make sure it was true.

"How could you miss it?"

"It was a tough catch."

"But it hit your hand."

"Yeah, but it was really moving, and I was reaching over the Korean girl, and we kind of interfered with each other."

"Where did it land?"

"I didn't really see it. It kind of rolled around and that guy over there ended up with it."

"How come you didn't go after it?"

"It was two rows down. What was I gonna do, steamroll the Koreans and wrestle the guy for a baseball."

"That's what I would have done. Whatever it takes, man."

I didn't doubt him. The Mets fan let it slip through his fingers. Ted was a true Yankees fan, and he would have gotten that ball, whatever it takes.