A Near Slip Into Yank Fan Douchebaggery

I’m wearing my Pettitte home jersey today. Normally, my wardrobe is not worthy of comment but I was just heckled for it at Outback by this sodding rotter with a cowboy hat, a wad of dip in his lip and a Texas sized belt buckle that was hanging on for dear life. By the time I spotted the tufts of hair sprouting out the neck hole, I was through. He was like a hybrid of Carl from Aqua Teen and that terrorist that they dragged out of a German apartment, topped off with a little redneck style.

Carl: "How’s that Mary-ann-oh Rivi-era pitching this year? Oh, I remember. Not as well as a young man named Bobby Jenks!"
Me: Yeah
C: You know about him?
M: Yeah
C: So what’re them Yanks about 11 games behind Boston now?
M: 8.5
C: Who’s that jersey you’re wearin?
M: Andy Pettitte
C: Well ain’t you a find! A girly fan wearin a jersey of somebody that’s old enough to be her daddy!

To this point, Carl didn’t said anything I didn’t already know or wasn’t willing to acknowledge. Frankly, I was just glad he was so tame. There’s nothing worse than being made fun of when you don’t have a response other than that which is fit for obnoxious fanboys that can’t form a real argument.

Look, I have total faith that the Yankees will come around. I know the Sux have gone off the deep-end but 75% of the season remains. If we can just get the hitting squared away and get a couple streaks and sweeps (like NOW), we’re gonna be all right. This team was built for a post-season run and we’re going to need to be 20 games out in September before I give up hope. But I’m smart enough to understand that you can’t come to an argument with ifs, buts, faith and hope. So I kept up this, "yeah, well we’ll see" response while he prattled on about the obvious.

C: That’s what’s wrong with you Yankees! Y’all won’t ever win a World Series!…and Clemens, heeee-whoooo, you’ll regret it. You’ll regret it…the pitching is HO-rrendous!… Y’all deserve this.

And that’s when I heard it. This voice in my head that yelled, "26 Championships! Tell him THAT! Tell him 26 championships! That’s what we have! HIS team doesn’t!" I didn’t want to. I’m better than this! But my hand started to shake. I bit my lip and tried to ride it out but the inner monologue wouldn’t shut down. As he continued, I only heard bits and pieces… random, typically unoffensive phrases that left me on the verge of a breakdown:

Carl: … couldn’t happen to a better fanbase
Inner Monologue: We have the classiest fans in baseball!
C: … complainin and you don’t even know what you got!…
IM: 9 straight AL Easts! I think we know!!
C: … Yanks are over.. you’ve had your time you know what I mean?…
IM: We’re only the greatest dynasty in sports… 26 fucking championships
C: … and what’s his name? Cashmens?…
IM: TWENTY-SIX
C: … White Sox just took 2 from y’all too!
C: … Rodriguez…
IM: TWENTY SIX!
C: … A-Rod…
IM: TWENTY SIX!
C: … and Jeter’s not even THAT good!
IM: AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TWENTYYYYYY SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIX!

And that’s when I noticed him staring at me. Apparently, I hadn’t verbally responded in quite some time but had turned beet red and was blinking at an alarming rate. All I really noticed by that point was that the voice had started to fade and left a pounding headache in its wake. And I don’t mean the subsurface pulsating that makes you consider picking up a Tylenol on your way out the house. This was fierce and relentless like a piston driving into my skull. I don’t even know how it happened. I just internally lost it. And after looking at him for a few moments, all I could muster was a "Well, I still have hope." With that, he was out of there. I can’t say I blame him.

But it’s not the meltdown that bothers me. It’s the thoughts that ran through my head while it was happening. There has never been a point in my life when I was confronted with anti-Yankite nonsense and nearly responded like my brain was made out of fanboy cheese. I’m completely baffled by it. Our club is in a jam but we’re not so bad off that the only place I can turn is "26 Championships!" Usually, I can form cogent arguments – stats, facts, information. Usually I have something to hang my hat on. But not right now. All I have are my ifs and buts and candy and nuts. It’s disgusting. I have to be better than this. Maybe I was just hungry and my slow brain function sparked all of this. Whatever the cause, I’m just glad I didn’t actually vocalize those ridiculous thoughts but that notwithstanding, I am officially in a shame spiral.