I hate the Yankees.
And when I say "I hate the Yankees," it is not something that's said frivolously. I mean, I really hate the Yankees. It's an enmity fueled by so much raw emotion and passion that I sometimes find these feelings confusing, if not a little embarrassing. With the Pinstriped Pricks coming to town on Tuesday, this physical and spiritual loathing is, again, coming to a head. This time, however, as an imaginary sportswriter, I'm feeling the need to try and make some rational and logical sense of these emotions that are, quite frankly, confounding. I'm going to attempt to look at this academically, as opposed to my usual "A-Rod (a.k.a. Bitch Tits) is a cheater/Jeter is a homo, etc..." cum rants.
So here it is, folks, my probing examination of my antipathy through a historical, political, medical, and self-analytical lens.
I. An historical, regional and socio-economic explanation
I've often struggled with the concept that I may possibly hate the Yankees more than I like the Red Sox. It's an interesting thesis. When the Sox won the ALCS in 2004, I actually derived more pleasure in watching the television shots of Yankee fans in the midst of their misery and humiliation than I did in watching the Sox doused in Bud Light during the locker room celebration. Does this make me a sadist? There's another idea that I can't entirely disregard.
However, growing up and living almost my entire life in New England, where Yankee-hating is a part of our culture, almost a sport in itself, it's possible that it is a learned behavior, nurtured in me, an undetectable nutrient in New England mothers' breast milk. My father hates the Yankees. His father hated the Yankees, and someday, I pray, my own son will make his papa proud and also hate the Yankees. While we try to teach our children not to hate, to teach them to empathize and try to understand, there's a caveat in New England to this life-lesson: Don't hate anyone, kids, unless it's the Yankees.
But this still doesn't explain why. Since I clearly don't have a life and I've had an abundance of time to ponder the issue the past couple of days, while trying to figure how I'll keep my pulse in check (without the use of prescription sedatives) for the upcoming three-game series, it occurred to me that this disdain for The Evil Empire may, in fact, have its roots in Marxism. The New York Yankees, with their historical disregard for salary caps and penchant for signing overpaid All-Stars, wear the mark of the bourgeoisie, the elite, and the resentment may stem from the frustrations of the proletariat. To me, George Steinbrenner---the first douche, as opposed to his equally douchey sons---single-handedly ruined the game of baseball and is largely responsible for the sickly state of the game today, the ridiculously inflated player-salaries, and, consequently, the obscene ticket prices that prevent guys like myself from being able to take his family to a ball game. Has John Henry, who I've realized bears more than a passing resemblance to the crypt-keeper from Tales from the Crypt, and the current Red Sox ownership followed Steinbrenner's douche suit? You bet. They're responsible for The Pink Hats and the affluent socialites filling the seats of Fenway with golden sticks up their collective asses these days. But I digress.
The reason I want every team in baseball to thrash the Yankees in head-to-head games is the same reason I root for Rocky to knock out Apollo, for Daniel-san to land that Crane Kick and beat Johnny and that asswipe sensei of the The Cobra Kai; it's David and Goliath, the story of the underdog, the plight of working-class. The Yankees are, and always will be, Apollo (in the first two movies), Drago, Goliath, The Cobra Kai, the guys in the black hats, the arrogant bosses, the bullies, the bastards who date the hero's one and only true love. Is it any coincidence that the team The Indians beat in the 1989 cinematic classic Major League (oh, Corbin Bernsen, where art thou these days?) was, none other than, The New York Yankees?
Regardless, there is still the irrationality of my hatred that needs to be addressed, which can only be explained as a medical condition.