Living in Connecticut—also known as No Man's Land—I am directly on what can be considered the San Andreas Fault of sports. The two tectonic plates are New York sports' fans and Boston sports' fans.
I, myself, am a New York sports' fan.
I grew up watching the New York Giants teams with guys like Lawrence Taylor, Mark Bavaro, and Phil Simms.
I remember the first time I saw Don Mattingly at Yankee Stadium, and I remember crying when I thought the Mets were going to lose the '86 series. (C'mon, I was 9).
In short, I have always been in a New York State of Mind.
In 1993, my family once again decided to move back to the divided state that is Connecticut.
I was looking for an NFL team to stand behind when I came across the New York Jets. The underdogs. Perfect!
And, yes, Boston guys, I am a real scumbag. I am still a Yankee fan. I could never let go of my boyhood man-crush on Donny Baseball. I returned just in time to enjoy years of success with the Yankees after those dreadful years I watched them as a boy.
I still talk to Boston guys who say, "I tried to hate that team, but how could you?"
This is much the way I feel about the Red Sox now. How can you hate Terry Francona? Hell of a coach and hell of a guy.
Plus—sorry to tell you guys—when he lived in Baltimore, he used to drive his kids up to watch the Yankees. But I digress.
In those years that the Yankees were successful, I remember seeing all these shiny new jerseys and hats. Girls (and guys) who had never seen a baseball, much less a game were walking around screaming, "Hey, I'm a Yankee fan!"
Made me want to puke.
I wanted to scream, "Where were you when pinstripes were equivalent to pink and green plaid?"
Around that same time, a man named Tom Brady and some other guys were starting to turn the NFL on its head.
The Patriots? Boston didn't even want the Patriots. No offense, but let's be honest: the Pats stunk for a long time. Do I have to bring up that Super Bowl?
No. And I shouldn't. After all, I am a Jets' fan. Between 1968 and the arrival of Bill Parcels, the only glory we've enjoyed was the Sack Exchange.
But now I can't walk a minute from my house without seeing Pat Patriot stuck on some Chevy Suburban. I can go to the local supermarket and guarantee you that I will see at least two pink Boston Red Sox hats on a soccer mom and another poser who doesn't know Jim Rice from Jasmine Rice wearing an Ortiz jersey.
Screw you pukes.
I may not go parading through Faneuil Hall in a Matsui jersey and a pinstripe thong, but rest assured, through good or bad, I will wear my team's colors.
So like I said to headline this silly diatribe, I almost feel bad for Boston fans.
I mean c'mon, I still hate 'em. Besides they're communists aren't they?
Seriously, I only hope I can one day grumble obscenities at a dork wearing a crisp, white Jets' hat with the friggin' shiny sticker still on it who doesn't know Joe Namath from Joe Mama — only interested after he watched the Jets come back in the fourth quarter to win one of the greatest Super Bowl games in history — against 50 to 1 odds — because it matches his sneakers.
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