It’s not easy being a Yankees fan in Boston. From the roars of Fenway Park filtering through my dorm room window, to the sheer awkwardness of walking through a world populated by rabid Red Sox fans and the “Yankees Suck” message written on my door’s whiteboard by an unknown party, my surroundings provide a constant reminder: You are not from here.
Logic suggests I should apply to become a citizen of Red Sox Nation. The reasons are overwhelming. The ballpark is three blocks from my room. Hostility from Red Sox fans would disappear. I wouldn’t have to fear for my safety when a mob forms in Kenmore Square after a thrilling ALCS comeback against the Indians. I wouldn’t have to use MLB.TV to watch my team’s games. Converting almost makes too much sense.
So why am I a Yankees fan?
Usually when someone asks me this question I have a response, one I’ve used so many times I don’t have to think about it. My first real exposure to professional baseball came on the same day as the death of Mickey Mantle. At the age of six, my godfather took me to Yankee Stadium for a day game against the Tribe. We saw The Bat, went to Monument Park, and yelled vaguely inappropriate things at Albert “Don’t Call Me Joey” Belle. We sat behind home plate and watched batting practice. I had more Mountain Dew than a child should ever be allowed to consume. It was amazing.
In the first inning, Paul O’Neill came up to bat with one out and Bernie Williams on first base. My godfather – probably knowing I wouldn’t remember an incorrect prediction beyond the next inning – predicted a home run. O’Neill promptly sent the baseball into the right-field seats, and the Yankees already had more runs than the Indians would score all game. Game, blouses.
Up until recently, that was my explanation for being a Yankee fan – how could I not pledge allegiance to the Bronx Bombers after seeing that game? Looking back on it now, I realize my explanation is incomplete. I know why I started to root for Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera, but my anecdote fails to justify my continued support. It certainly isn’t a conscious decision. I doubt most fans continually reassess the decision to follow a particular team.
Once I began down this train of thought, there was no turning back. Why am I still a Giants fan? Sure, they won the Super Bowl, but I was a Giants fan way back when Dave Brown was the quarterback and the team won five games a year, so there must be another reason. For that matter, why am I a Knicks fan? There isn’t much fun in cheering on the most dysfunctional franchise in American professional sports, unless accumulating overpriced, underperforming primadonnas constitutes a winning strategy.
Of all the hundreds upon hundreds of college athletic programs I could choose to support, why BU? Granted, the situation here is somewhat different – I’m in Boston and I’m a BU student. But if results count for anything, the sports I attend most often haven’t held up their end of the bargain. Apparently results are secondary in my mind – to what?
Everything else, that’s what. Not to discount winning – there’s a certain inexplicable satisfaction in seeing your favorite team on the good end of the scoreboard – but there are more important things, at least as far as I’m concerned. Even during the playoffs, my joy after a win largely stems from knowing there will be another game to be played.
There is more to sports than winning and losing. My Terrier men’s basketball fandom is not a byproduct of the team’s record – if my support was based solely on performance, I would still be a Duke fan. I go to the games to see effort, enthusiasm and thrill of competition. I go to see John Holland posterize a guy and run back down the court with a huge grin on his face. I go to see Tyler Morris wink at an opponent attempting to take a jumper, trying to break the shooter’s concentration.
The real reward of fandom isn’t in the wins and losses – it’s in all the details which, when taken together, comprise the whole experience. The details are what bring the diehard fans back to the games year after year, win or lose. It’s about the human element bringing sports to life, allowing ordinary people to engross themselves in what would otherwise be a cold and dull activity.
Sit down one day and watch Joba Chamberlain pitch. More specifically, watch him strike out a batter in an important situation. It happens all the time, so there are plenty of chances to see it happen – videos are all over the Internet. After a big strikeout, Joba shows genuine emotion, pumping his fist and yelling at no one in particular. People have different reactions to the celebratory antics. Some people applaud his outward display of enthusiasm. Other people say it disrespects the batter and the game of baseball.
What would sports be if nobody celebrated?
Matt Whitrock, a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].
