Bruise On The Big Apple
By Erik Haan
MANHATTAN – The City that Never Sleeps became the City That Couldn’t Speak.
Leaving New York last night, my feet 10 feet off the ground after the improbable happened, I realized I could hear a pin drop. While the occasional screaming from isolated Red Sox fans echoed through the cavernous city, there was something just a little bit eerie about the scene.
After all, there was an air of invincibility about this town. Boston fans have always had a complex with New York. The dominance of the Pinstripers is not solely responsible. New York dwarfs Beantown. The lights are brighter. The buildings are taller. And there’s something a little bit intimidating about all of that.
Leaving the Manhattan bar where I took in the game, my first instinct was to yell into the darkness, as loud as I could. And I did. Frequently. I had to. I hated the Yankees. I had suffered long enough in my 25 years. I wanted to stick it to this town and this was my opportunity. I represented all of Red Sox Nation and this was the time.
As if with blinders on, I found every Red Sox fan on my sidewalk and exchanged handshakes, and congratulations, a grin permanently affixed to my face. We did it. We finally did it.
I chose to watch the game in New York this year because I made the unfortunate decision to take in last season’s Game 7 at a Boston bar. We all know how we felt after that, but the scene in the Beantown streets was exactly how I imagined Hell. Tortured souls in the middle of dark streets, just screaming and cursing at no one in particular. Yick! I don’t think I could go through that again. And I figured that even if the Yankees won while I was in hostile territory, at least I wouldn’t have my sorrows doubled by seeing other Fenway Faithful in pain. I could just go back to my girlfriend’s Hoboken apartment and just go to bed.
About half way back to my car, I passed one of many Yankees fans along the way. He was a shop owner, and was standing on the sidewalk to take in the scene. You could tell he had been through a hard day at work, his apron and clothes covered in stains. He proudly wore his Yankees cap, the only clean article he adorned.
I didn’t say anything as I approached him. Despite my inward inclination to shove it to every New Yorker, it has become somewhat of a habit to avoid certain hard-looking characters. Let’s just say he qualified.
I must have given myself away, though. Whether it was the smile on my face or the spring in my step I don’t know, but he definitely noticed it. Neither I or my girlfriend were wearing Red Sox paraphernalia.
"I guess you finally got us", he said.
"What’s that?" I asked, surprised by his tolerable demeanor.
"I guess you finally got us", he repeated, turning and shuffling back into his shop.
"That’s right", I said to myself. "We got you. You’re done. This city has been leveled."
But as I looked around after thinking that, it really occurred to me that there were a lot more fans like that guy. People wearing their Yankees shirts and hats, but walking around in stunned silence. Despite my own frequent obnoxiousness, no one got in my face. They didn’t glare at me as I passed them. They put their heads down.
They were defeated, and something was a little bit sad about that.
No one was in the streets crying foul about the series. There was no controversy. No umpire ruling that should have gone the other way. No dirty tactics.
The Red Sox just won this one. It was unthinkable that their proud Yankees could lose to Boston in such a profound manner. They should have won. They always win. Even we knew that!
But they didn’t this time, and they knew they had to accept it. It was clear that they finally got a little taste of what it was like to be a Red Sox fan. To come so close and to have just everything go wrong.
"Why did Tony Clark’s hit have to bounce into the stands?", their looks seemed to say. "Why didn’t the Yankees bunt against Curt Schilling?"
These were not the New York fans I had come to know. Or hate. What happened to the guy in the Yankee Stadium bleachers who threatened to bludgeon me with a metal cane if the Red Sox won Game 1 of the 1999 ALCS? Where was the promise to go home in a body bag? Or to get my face rearranged for showing my Red Sox pride?
Part of me just wanted to go up to one of these deflated fans and just give ‘em a light tap on the shoulder and say "Come on, the Yankees suck. Now you go. Say ‘1918’ or something. Come on."
While I was too excited to actually do something like that, part of me really missed hearing "Who’s Your Daddy?" belted out by 55,000 people.
After all, wasn’t part of the excitement of finally beating the Yankees the thrill of the chase? Didn’t we secretly enjoy the Yankees dominance because we knew it would make it that much sweeter when we finally DID beat them?
Be honest with yourself. The Yankees success and their subsequent obnoxious fans made this rivalry. It wouldn’t be anything special to beat the Yankees when they were a terrible team. It would be like the Patriots winning their first Super Bowl against the Arizona Cardinals.
No, these were not the same Yankees fans. They weren’t extra obnoxious. They were more like, well…us. Their team was human and so were they.
For now, the Red Sox move on. Sox Nation has a lot to look forward to, and one last demon to exorcise. We have to get our vocal cords ready for the most excitement the Old Towne Team has seen in 18 years. We’ve got to finish the job.
But to the Yankees fans: Get ready for next year. You know George is going to go ballistic and heads will roll. You know you’ll get Carlos Beltran and maybe even our own Pedro Martinez. You’ll be reloaded, for sure.
And while the amount of money the Yankees can spend is obnoxious, and while I know their fans will be back to berating us with obscenities, part of me really looks forward to it.
So rest up this offseason, Yankees fans. We got you this year. The tables were turned for once.
But let’s make it another Game 7 next year. What do you say?
