Red Sox Fan Shares Thoughts on Yankee Fans

Todd Civin@https://twitter.com/toddcivin1Senior Writer IJune 9, 2009

NEW YORK - OCTOBER 17:  Yankee fans cheer as they attend a Yankees rally at City Hall October 17, 2003 in New York City. The Yankees defeated the Boston Red Sox October 16 at Yankee Stadium and will now try to win the team's 27th World Series by playing the Florida Marlins.  (Photo by Mario Tama/Getty Images)

Though the gates are still pulled down around our beloved Fenway and George, the peanut man, has yet to roast his first "Pistaaaaaachio", they've already started to swarm around Yawkey Way.

With names like "Joey", "Mario", "Tina", "Joey" ,"Mario", and "Tina", they gather around the only remaining hallowed ground and talk of the "New" House that Tax Payers Dollars Built.

The smell of Pacco Rabanne overpowers the scent of "The Sausage King", which hovers over Gate C after every Red Sox game. Crammed into designer jeans and frequently combing the big hair on both the male and female of the species, they stand out from the much more "normal" Boston fans.

Chest hair aplenty flows from the top of their pinstripe shirts, with A-Rod's 13*, and Jeter's familiar 2, as far as the eye can see. As they line up in front of the Beer Works and The Cask three hours before the ballpark opens, the voices of Doug and  Carrie Heffernan broadcasts loudly over the streets of the Fens.

Like a circus procession from the Greatest Show on Earth, the Yankee fans have made their way out of Co-op City and GPS'ed their way up Interstate 95 as a three-game series between sports' most heated rivals is on tap.

With first place on the line, fans from both sides dream of a sweep for no other reason than bragging rights. Scratching and yanking at themselves like Bronx Zoo chimpanzees, the Yankee fans are a sight to behold.

Intelligent conversation like "Yo Joey. Mingya," and "Oh, yeah, well you wish you could date Madonna" echo through Landsdowne Street in the guttural groan spoken around every Da Bronx neighborhood. 

Gold rope chains, sold by the inch on the busiest NY city street corner, are emblazoned with Yankee medallions the size of the hub caps from their thin-wheeled BMW's.

Designer T-shirts adonned with well thought-out phrases like "Got Rings" and "Youk's Mother Loves Pedroia" are nearly as abundant as the window decals with the little Yankee dude going pee-pee on the Red Sox symbol.

"Yo, Joey. I love that one," snorts one of the Yankee throng.

As a team, I confess, this Yankee team doesn't bother me nearly as much as some in the past. I have to admire guys like Jeter, Rivera, Cano and Melky. I'm admittedly jealous that we didn't get Teixeira and would love to have seen him launching bombs 81 games a year into the Citgo sign instead of the Yankee Stadium jet stream.

There is no greater writer and more thoughtful human being on the Bleacher Report pages than "Heartbeat of the Bronx". I love his passion and his sense of style and aspire to consistently write with no hint of a Papi-like slump. I even begrudgingly call him a friend (only during baseball season, Stephen).

But, Lord, I thank you every day I was plopped dead in the middle of Kenmore Square, instead of living in the shadows of Yankee Stadium. I somehow feel that the distribution of brain cells ceased just south of the Hartford.

I wear my Red Sox tattoo proudly and joke with Yankee fans that I also have a NY one in a place where the sun don't shine.

I've sat many a Yankee-Red Sox game listening in the bleachers while heated conversation took place between passionate Red Sox fans and equally passionate Yankee fans. The banter goes something like this.

Sox fan: "Oh yeah, well who choked in 2004?"

Yankee Fan: "Yo...look at the rings."

Sox fan: "Oh yeah, well who choked in 2004?"

Yankee Fan: "Yo, look at the rings."

Sox fan: "Word."

Sox fan:  "I know, I know...Yo, look at the rings."

So, I know what you're thinking. I'm seeing the world again through my slightly jaded Red Sox glasses. Guilty as charged. I'm sure there is some intelligent life beyond New Haven.

After all, I've tossed back a few Guinness with Pete and Ivan at the Hairy Monk
(337 3rd Ave.@ 25th St). But on the whole (tell 'em how you really feel) , I suspect that most Yankee fans are a few fries short of a happy meal.

And so, I end with my favorite Yankee joke (no, it's not Jeffrey Maier):

Albert Einstein is at a party and asks one of the guests:

Albert: “What is your IQ?"

Guest: "165."

Albert: Great, we can talk about nuclear physics and cosmology.”

After a few minutes of lively discourse, another party guest tries to get in on the conversation.

Einstein asks him, “What is your IQ?”

Guest: "65."

To which Einstein replies: “GO YANKEES!”

Welcome to Fenway, Yankee fans...let the games begin.


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