A Yankee Fan Living in the Middle of Red Sox Nation

"If 'manners maketh man' as someone said
Then he's the hero of the day
It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile
Be yourself no matter what they say"
-Sting: "I'm an Englishman in New York"

I am a Yankee fan. I have been a Yankee fan for the past 17 years. It took me a while to settle on a team. I went back and forth between the Yankees and the Mets for a while, but this is to be expected growing up where I did. My father, a Yankee fan, my brother a Mets fan, I always had someone to side with. What was the deciding factor that finally lead me the way of the Bronx Bombers? My dad purchased Season Tickets to the Yankees. This gave me FREE access to home games, FREE being the operative word. There you have it, a Yankee fan. I also realized as I grew up, that it was an unbreakable tie between me and my father, something we could always talk about, something we finally had in common. I would say now that it was that bond that tied me so tightly to the Yankees. While I don't think we ever attended a game together, he never hesitated to get me the tickets I asked for. Coveted Yankees v. Red Sox Tickets were always mine for the taking, especially since I went to school in Springfield, Massachusetts. Half the school rooted for the Yankees while the other half pined away for the Red Sox.

I never really hated the Red Sox, I felt sorry for them. What I did begin to notice was that Red Sox fans, while they are loyal to the core, hate Yankee fans. I knew there was a rivalry, dating back to the Babe, and maybe even further, however, I didn't realize how bad this rivalry was, how hated Yankee fans were, until I stepped foot on the Ferry to visit my mom. The man who led my car to its parking spot in the belly of the "Island Home" was glaring at me. Not just straining to see who was behind the wheel, and usher them into their tight little spot, but glaring, a look of all out hatred. I could not for the life of me figure out why. Had I run over his dog when I was pulling in? Did I look like his ex-wife? Had I slept with his ex-wife? No, couldn't have been that, as much as I love my girl time, I do not "bat" for that team. It wasn't until I was washing my hands in the bathroom of the ferry, that I realized why I was scrutinized by all of the people on the boat. I had worn my Yankee hat. My 17 year old Yankee hat that was purchased by my father for my first game. The hat that I wear not only when the Yankees are winning, but when I miss my dad. When I want to be closer to him. When I am thinking about him. I meant no disrespect to the people of Red Sox nation, I simply was missing my father.

This was not my first encounter with the people of Red Sox nation, and it certiantly would not be my last. But I was tucked away in my little corner of Connecticut surrounded by my family, mostly women, and ALL Yankee's Fans. It was okay to root for my team, hell, we even allow you to root for your team...as long as it is not too loud, or at least not louder than we were. Now, here I am, 30 minutes from Fenway. My husband has actually installed numerous signs for those coveted Fenway Franks. No one here likes Yankee fans. They despise them on mere principle alone. I am happy for the Red Sox. They played an awesome series. I can say that because I am secure in my allegiance to the New York Yankees. We will not always win. We will even loose sometimes to the Red Sox. I can handle that. It is okay, because we will live to play another game/series/season. What I can not handle are people despising me for simply wearing a hat. I love my little town in Massachusetts. I can tolerate the Red Sox/ Patriot fans. I can tolerate the commercials from local furniture stores guaranteeing a sale if the Red Sox bring home the pennant. I can tolerate my Conservative political talk show host blabbing uncontrollably about the Red Sox victory. I can even tolerate the morning news broadcasting live from Fenway, where my morning weather update is brought to me from the top of the Green Monster. I get it. Red Sox Nation is excited. What I have a difficult time with is their inability to accept me. Just because I root for the boys in pinstripes, does not make me a bad person. It just means I have better taste!!

One Million questions....and two statements of fact.

October 16th. I never know how to feel on this day. I usually feel sad, tears are inevitable, but I try to be happy. I try to picture what he would be like today. Would we get together for dinner? Would we talk about politics, or the fact that the Yankees where eliminated in the first round of the playoffs? Would he be proud of the person I have become? Would he know how much I love him? How would he be with Delaney? Would he fit comfortably around that little finger? Would she make him laugh? Would he make her giggle that deep belly giggle she only does when she can not bear to hold it in any longer? Would he look into those deep blue eyes and see himself? What about Branden and Rae? Would he go to their games, and cheer silently from the sidelines? Would he disect their play over dinner that night? Would he be as proud of them as I am? Would he look at Chris and see the incredible man he has become? Would he be able to finally forgive himself? Would he see how much we truly love him? How much we truly miss him being a part of our lives? Happy Birthday Daddy. I love you, and I miss you.

The Problem With Pedestals

Pedestals are a great invention. They give height to statues of people who have died by heoric means, provide a base to washing machines, and can even be used in the study of linguistics when diagraming sentences. They should, however, never be used to hold people to standards to which they can never feasibly reach, living or deceased. I say this because, I believe that certain people in my life have been placed on pedestals, in which I have set the bar of my expectations so high, that they could not possibly reach them with a space shuttle, let alone a measley granite foundation.

My brother is one of these people. I have loved him with every inch of my heart for the past 11,934 days. He was always my hero. He is not perfect, and I understand that, but he was the only brother I ever had, and because of that, to me, he was perfect. If you listen to me talk about my brother, you will hear two types of stories, both describing the epitome of an older brother. The first include stories involving me chasing "our" golden retriever through "our" elementary school, or evoking my fear in the IRS at the ripe old age of 10. These stories bring to mind teasing, or joking at a younger siblings expesne. But there are also the stories of protection. Protecting me from the cold hard truth (LITERALLY) of my Honey Bunny's untimely demise, or riding the elementary school bus, when you are a MIDDLE SCHOOLER, just to handle a minor situation with a pair of second grade boys who were teasing your pain in the ass younger sister. (I never did see those boys on the bus again).

Whether he was teasing or protecting, he was my older brother, and he could walk on water (as long as it was frozen and he had his skates on!) It didn't matter that we spent more of our lives apart, then we did together. It didn't matter that we grew up in the same family, with two distinctively different situations. It didn't matter that we shared some of the toughest times kids ever had to share. He was my brother, and that alone was enough to grant him that slab of granite that even his Marine training would not allow him to repel from safely.

It took me 11,934 days to realize that he does not belong on a pedestal. Not because he is not amazing, becuase he is. Not becuase he is one of the smartest people I know, because he is. He doesn't belong there because it is not safe for him to be there. It is not fair. He did not ask to be pedestalized. He didn't even ask to be my brother, and I often wonder if he wishes he wasn't. Life would have been much easier for him without me... but not nearly as interesting!

The Exposure of Roots

It has been over a year since I posted my first blog. I waxed poetic about stability, and my quest to find it. I thought this past May I finally had. I finished the certification program that consumed my every spare minute (for those of you who don't know, or can't remember, you truly have ONE spare minute a day with a Three-year old in your charge), I had been offered two fabulous positions at two very different schools, and my husband and I were finally working on the same goal: trying to be a family. Sounds stable to me. That is the problem with relying on auditory senses to measure safety, it is not reliable (or valid for those of you studying educational research, or any other research out there). Given identical circumstances, relying on one's auditory senses will not always ensure the appropriate level of safety.


I chose the position in Massachusetts. My husband, daughter and I scoured the surrounding towns for the perfect place for us to reestablish the family that had been ripped apart at the seams. We found just that place. A home for the three of us. A place to transplant the barely surviving roots of our family sapling. The instability came in the ever-so-careful transplanting of these roots. I am beginning to feel that perhaps they did not survive the move, or perhaps it was the tropical storm 2 years ago that ripped them up in the first place. As my sister in law so appropriately explained to me, a relationship needs to be protected from the bull-shit of everyday life. She used the metaphor of a bicycle wheel, with the relationship being the center, and everyday life being the spokes. I think my tree metaphor works just as well. Mine and my husband's relationship is like the roots of a tree. It gives our family its nourishment, its vitality, and its stability. If they are planted deeply in the correct soil, and cared for appropriately, with the right amount of sunlight, nutrients, and water, the tree will grow and flourish. They need to be protected from the harmful effects of acid rain, as a relationship needs to be protected from reckless abandon (and I do not use the word abandon lightly).

I do not think that up to this point, I have been a good protector of these roots. I can't say that my husband has either. We have replanted our family tree in a small town in Massachusetts. We have carefully chosen the soil, and have watered it faithfully, but not so much as to flood away the nutrients it so desperately needs. We are an organic family, so we have refused the use of pesticides or inorganic fertilizer, but my fear is that our tending may have been too late. I fear that the roots have been exposed to the elements far too long, and have been weakened to the point that they are beyond salvation. And if this is the case, what is a girl to do when the one thing she wants more than anything else in the world is stability, and her roots are exposed?