1996 Ad

USA Today (Society for the Advancement of Education), Jan, 1997 by Wayne M. Barett

"The YANKS? No thanks!" My handmade pin, its letters

I written in large, bold, black magic marker, was affixed to my T-shirt as I made my way around campus, displaying the biggest scowl seen this side of Sal Magie (the snarling ace of the old New York Giants). The source of my discontent was the New York Yankees, who had won their first American League pennant in 12 years and were set to play the Cincinnati Reds in the 1976 World Series. My anger quickly turned to glee, however, when the Bronx Bombers were swept by the Big Red Machine,

My renewed optimism that the baseball gods somehow were on my side after all ended abruptly just 12 months later, when the Yankees indeed did win the World Series, downing the Los Angeles Dodgers in six games. For years afterward, a picture of devastated shortstop Freddie Patek, his shoulders stooped, head in hands, sobbing in the dugout after a Yankee ninth-inning rally gave New York the 1977 pennant instead of his Kansas. City Royals, hung over my desk, a visual reminder of the very real agony that can descend on athletes and their admirers.

All these memories and more came flooding back to me this year as I stood in the auxiliary press area beyond first base at Yankee Stadium on a cool, comfortable October night. With Halloween less than a week away, I soon was to learn that the Ghost of World Series Past wasn't finished with me yet. The Yankees stood on the verge of another world title, their first since 1978.

As the ninth inning progressed, I thought of my dad on the same site some 32 years earlier, when he and a buddy got last-minute tickets to the 1964 World Series. They ended up triple-parked a while and a half from the ballpark. Running all the way, they still arrived too late to see the St. Louis Cardinals fall behind 3-0. But a grand slam by St. Louis third baseman Ken Boyer solved that problem and the two Yankee-haters were thrilled, while the Redbirds went on to take the Series in seven. The St. Louis banner my dad brought home that day was the first of hundreds of pennants I was to collect over the ensuing decades and still hangs proudly with my ample potpourri of baseball memorabilia.

My mind also flashed back to 10 Octobers ago, when I had stood in another New York City borough, this time witnessing the New York Mets snuffing out the Boston Red Sox in an unforgettable Fall Classic. Like the Braves of 1996, the Sox of a decade earlier had won the first two games on the road, only to have things unravel at home, before returning to the enemy's park for the final defeat. I was inconsolably morose after the seventh game.

In retrospect, it seems sort of silly, but young men can put their passions in strange places. Of course, you get older and priorities change. When I returned home from the Mets celebration, I stewed in a one-room apartment not much bigger than my present-day office, the cupboard stocked with liquor and cigarettes for refuge. Last autumn, although certainly not in a state of despair reflective of 1986, I was nonetheless upset. This time, though, I came home to my own house. I crept softly down the hall, looked in the bedroom on the left, and saw my wife asleep with the TV still on. I then tiptoed into the bedroom on the right to check on our four-month-old daughter. She looked angelic in her crib, certainly bearing no worries about which team had won some dumb World Series.

Some day that may change, and Julie will choose a favorite team, with no help or pressure from dad - with one exception. She can not, under any circumstances, be a Yankee fan. There are 27 other teams to select from. Heck, it's even okay if she cheers for the Mets or Dodgers - two clubs near the bottom of my wish list - just not the Yankees. I must confess, however, to buying her a Red Sox outfit that won't fit until next summer. That's okay, though, because she'll learn early on not to be a front-runner, as the Bosox haven't won the World Series since 1918, and the suffering of their fans is legend. Contrast Boston rooters, despair and humility with that of Yankee followers, arrogance and aggressiveness and you have struck upon the mother lode of the doctrine of hate that bums within the hearts of all who despise the Yankees.

Bottle and battery tossing, invading the playing field while the game is in progress, and inebriation-inspired obscene chants are the trademarks of the typical Yankee fan. Seemingly incapable of experiencing the joy and thrill of victory, Yankee enthusiasts would rather revel in the seeds of destructive behavior. On the subway leading from Yankee Stadium after victory had been secured, the unruly mob of straphangers didn't chant pro-Yankee slogans or sing songs of victory. Instead, they chose to mock the Braves with gutter-language slurs. Vengeance in victory is their modus operandi.

The sports world has a penchant for bizarre bad bounces and unexpected turns of fate, so I learned long ago never to put a title in my back pocket until the deed is done. But when the Braves went up two-zip, I couldn't help but fantasize about how I wanted to turn on the radio to listen to the Series, conclusive out even though I was there to see it in person. The Yankees, radio announcers are a primary source of my rage. They're pompous, condescending, unapologetic homers. It was going to be sweet music to experience them sadly mumbling their way through that last out and the crowning of Atlanta. Instead, the recording of that final excruciating Brave pop-up will haunt me forever. It's played constantly, over and over again, everywhere, including when you're put on hold if placing a call to the Yankees, offices. Instead of relishing the sounds of Yankee defeat, I must now endure the loathsome voices of victory that I prayed I would never hear. To borrow from Richard Ill, this indeed will be the winter of my discontent. Well, at least I've had plenty of practice.