It was the aftermath of another Yankee-Red Sox series, the day after riveting 3-game weekend showdown. The games left me scampering for Xanax, fielding phone calls from friends who were either panicking or gloating, and ultimately worrying about Kevin Brown’s meltdown against the cursed Olde Town team.
Monday came and, after the excitement and emotional energy of the games abated, my wife Cat and I decided that I needed to get my mind off the craziness of the heated rivalry. After all, both teams will surely meet in the ALCS, once again, in two weeks. There would be more drama unfolding soon.
So, my wife and I got into my truck and headed out for the local CD shop on Rt. 44 in Canton, CT.
We went out searching for a present for one of my buddies who was about to celebrate his 40th birthday. The journey is coming at a good time, I thought. I can use an afternoon combing through old records and books, it’s a great way to relax and forget this nonsense.
My wife went to a nearby furniture store to look for a table for her sewing machine, and I went into the CD shop.
I found it comforting to be in an old hippy store. Jefferson Airplane’s "After Bathing at Baxter’s" was playing. Jerry Garcia posters and Bootleg Moby Grape recordings surrounded me and, of course, Nag Champa incense. I felt soothed, comforted. Surely the intensity of the Yankee/Redsox rivalry was the furthest thing from the minds of these stoned-out latter-day hippies. No baseball angst here, thank God.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it: A reverse the curse beer can cozy. My blood rose slightly, but I stopped myself. I let it go. I conjured up some highlights from my self-help meditation tapes. I visualized world peace, a place where Yankee and Red Sox fans co-existed together, or at least a place where they didn’t contemplate exchanging gunfire with one another on a daily basis. I continued looking through the used CD bins for some live Jorma.
But my acute senses had been stirred—that deeply ingrained, heightened sense of awareness that rears itself as a defense mechanism whenever I smell a Red Sox fan spinning his whining dogma.
Then I saw something else out of the corner of my eye—a hat that said ‘Official Yankee Hater.’
The damn broke lose. I forgot about the CDs and combed the merchandise. I was on the prowl. I saw all manner of horrible things: a T-shirt that said that Derek Jeter engaged in unnatural acts, another shirt that said that Jeter liked furry animals a little too much, and there were other artifacts that were even more demented. I noticed that there wasn’t anything pro-Yankee. No hats, nothing. I made a mental note never to shop there again. I gathered my Nag Champa incense, the CD I picked up for my friend, and went to the checkout booth.
And as Arlo Guthrie would say: Therrrrrrrrrrre at the checkout...there, in bold letters, underlined, in quotations, were bumper stickers. On the bumper stickers read the following words: Yankeesuck.com "The watchdog of the evil empire." Having been to the site, and read its hyberpolia-ridden dogma on occasion, I could no longer contain myself.
And so the following conversation took place:
ME: What’s with all the anti-Yankee crap.
EVIL PERSON: The Yankees suck
ME: They’re in first place.
EVIL PERSON: The Yanks just buy pennants.
ME: 2 of the 3 highest paid players in baseball are Red Sox.
EVIL PERSON: How about A-Rod?
ME: Texas pays most of his salary.
EVIL PERSON: All George cares about is money.
ME: Um..no. He cares more about winning than money. That is the crux of your issue. You’re jealous because your team chokes and they haven’t been able to beat the Yanks since 1918.
EVIL PERSON: The Sox are scrappy, fun to watch, blue collar.
ME: Varitek fights with his mask on.
This went on for a few more minutes. I held serve with this poor misguided soul.
Then I told him that I am always amused by the hatred that Red Sox fans have toward the Yankees. It’s raw, visceral. When he said you guys hate the Sox too, I knew that was true. But just to inflict more pain, I paraphrased Bogart in Casablanca and said:
“Well, I guess I would despise the Red Sox if I thought or worried about them at all.”
His ears turned purple. He grabbed my CDs and incense with authority. He rang me up. Then he stared at the cash register. A moment of silence passed before he said.
“Oh My God. That comes to $19.18.”
“1918. Now get out of my store. “
I smiled, took my bag, and walked cheerfully out the door.
Phil is a staff writer for NYYFans.com, and he writes a weekly column for the website of WCBS News Radio 88, the home of the Yankees. You can reach him at PhilAllard27(at)hotmail.com.
