It's just so easy to hate the New York Yankees.
Less so than before, naturally. When I was a kid my hatred was cartoonish and resolute. I hated the Yankees more than Bob and Jeff combined. The Yankees were awful and arrogant and they stunk and, what's worse, they won all the time.
Now, I have to admit some of them aren't all that objectionable. I mean, what's not to like about a class act like Torre? And Posada, whose kid survived cranial synostosis? And Mussina, who likes crossword puzzles? And Rivera, who's been the best ever forever? And all the kids who breathed such an important life into the team's comeback this year?
Regardless, the Yankees remain at the apogee of pure suckage.
When you watch Yankees games on their own network, the announcer likes to remind viewers that the team has won "more championships than any team in the history of sport." They outspent the Red Sox, who had the #2 payroll, by $50 million. Their best player (for now) is a jerk who need punching. Their fans are coarse enough to tell you to go fuck your mother in front of your five-year-old kid. And their owner is a perennial finalist in the competition for World's Biggest Douche. Every year when they lose in the playoffs my heart leaps with joy, and my body convulses around in what could be called the Yankees Suck Hula-Twist-Butterchurn.
So I was out last night, watching Game 4 with a bunch of Indians fans and counting the outs, catching my breath with every solo home run that brought the Yankees closer. And then it was finally over, and the fuse was lit. The coach will go, and the others will go with him, and soon the last vestiges of the dynasty will be blown to smithereens. Happy times, no?
Because this morning Robert asked me what had happened the night before, and I had to explain that his beloved team had been eliminated from the playoffs, which means they wouldn't play another game until next March. And those sweet, soulful, trusting eyes moistened, and his lower lip quavered, and he bowed his head in sorrow. In other words, he drained all the goddamn fun out of everything.
Before you reach for your eponymous tissues, don't despair. Robert was back talking trash in about half an hour, asserting that he was rooting for the Indians to beat his old man's Sox and move on to the Series. Psychologists will tell you this is a good thing, that a child needs to feel unconditionally loved enough to express a contrary thought to a parent. And that's good, because next year once again the Yanks and Sox play 19 games against each other, and after each game there's gonna be a whole lotta butterchurnin' goin' on.