A HOUSE DIVIDED
As I write this, it is 9:35 p.m. on Sunday night. I am filled with trepidation, sweating lightly, and pondering my chances of surviving the next ten days. You see, the New York Yankees are leading Cleveland, having just scored several runs in the sixth inning. The Red Sox have secured their place in the playoffs having just swept up with an impressive hammering of their opposition. Look, I am not a big sports guy, and my interest in baseball only reveals itself towards the end of the season, and even then, only if the Red Sox are involved. When the Yankess are involved, it's a different story.
You're probably reading this thinking that I should grow up, get a hold of myself. It's not that simple. You see, my wife is from New Jersey, a life long Yankee fan, and she has brainwashed my 10 and 11 year old sons into thinking that the Yankees are God's gift to the world of baseball. To me, the Yankees are emblematic of everything I hate about New York and the surrounding area. That attitude, the cockiness. Self-assured beyond any reason and egos over-inflated with some kind of obnoxious gas, it has all the earmarks of a cultural virus. My disdain for the New York team transcends baseball, as you can probably tell, and that just makes the immediate future that much more ominous for me.
Tonight, at the begining of the Yanks game, it looked as though Clevleland had a lock on it. My 11 year old was genuinely in despair and I had to reassure him that games have a way of turning around, and sure enough, it did. Then, I felt guilty for possibly having given the Yanks some kind of inadvertent wish of luck in the interest of fulfilling my parenting duties. This creates tension between my son and I. The little boy in me wanted to yell out..."Why did you make me say that?!" I was secretly hoping that the Indians would hammer those annoying stripes and my boys could begin dealing with the misery now and get it over with. Furthermore, a comeback positions the stars in a dreadful way for me, making possible a showdown between New York and Boston. There is no better series, I know, no more pure a rivalry, but the thought of it weakens me.
Even when the Red Sox recently won the World Series, my wife and kids would not root for them during the playoffs. Even with the Yankees smoked out of the picture, they couldn't extend me the common courtesy of pretending to root for my team. I face the very real possibility of having to endure game after game of them, sitting on the couch, and me in the corner in my tiny wooden chair clapping for the Red Sox. I feel minimized, insignificant, grasping at every little bit of self-control I can muster while my entire family applauds every success of a team I can't stand. The idea of having to watch Jeter and Rodriguez, smarmy dolts, swagger and reel in victory, is already giving me cramps. I feel light-headed and disoriented, almost fevered, and I stumble when I stand, and all this just at the notion of a Red Sox/Yankees series.
It is times like this that people turn themselves over to some higher power, that they turn to God or that Mormon guy from space and ask for help. I may soon be reaching out myself. It was only an hour ago I was preparing to console my son, to have that father-son chat about sports and sportsmanship, about the "nature' of the game. How guaranteed outcomes are never fun, it is the mystery and the twists of fate that make it interesting. Now, just moments later, I need consoling. I guess I'll just go bury my face in my pillow and cry, and no, I don't want any cookies.
|