I can't help it—it's in the pinstriped blood that beats through my heart, which quite possibly has an interlocking "NY" tattooed on it.
So I'm a little biased.
More than the Red Sox, though, I hate Red Sox fans.
From the whining and crying about curses when they were losing to the gloating and poor sportsmanship now that they're winning—I hate everything about Red Sox Nation.
Haven't we seen enough Curse of the Bambino documentaries, and had enough of Fitzy, Danny Boy, and Dennis Leary rubbing in the Yankees collapse of 2004?
Well, I suppose an over-the-hill hack like Dennis Leary probably needs the paycheck.
A man can only spend so much time trying to decipher that ridiculous accent to understand the drivel Sully and O'Reilly are spouting from their rotten, red-colored pie holes before he loses it.
You'd never catch Yankee fans acting that way.
Class, we have. Pinstriped Pride.
Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Reggie, Rags, Donnie Baseball, Derek—the list is long and incredibly distinguished. We don't need to gloat about our 26 World Championships.
You'd never see the Yankee faithful abusing opposing fans at the Cathedral in the Bronx—a holy place; a place of honor for players and fans alike.
You wouldn't catch us tossing beer on anyone in a Schilling jersey...
Wait a minute—yes you would.
Only three short months until pitchers and catchers report.
I can't wait.
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