"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."
- Sun Tzu, The Art of War.
I did the unthinkable last weekend. I, Will Herberich, a born Red Sox fan (literally-my uncle placed a Sox hat on my head on my day of birth), became a Yankees fan.
No, not permanently. But for one night, I took it upon myself to become the object of my greatest loathing. For one night, dark was light, evil was good-50 Cent was Ja Rule.
I borrowed a Yankees hat and jersey from a guy in my building, and the transformation began. I noticed it first when I went to the bathroom soon after I put on the pinstripes, and discovered that there were roughly four inches less of me than in my days as a Sox fan.
Within fifteen minutes, words like "tradition," "pride," and "professionalism" entered my vocabulary with increasing regularity. I shaved off every bit of stubble on my face so I could conform with my clean-cut brethren.
I didn't just respect Derek Jeter-I worshipped him. Jason Giambi suddenly changed from a greasy, cheating waste of space into a valuable clubhouse leader. Gary Sheffield? Still the scariest man alive, but at least he was on my side now. I'd like to say that I suddenly believed Randy Johnson was a decent looking guy-but even Yankee fans know that's just not realistic. And Alex Rodriguez? Still hated him.
I didn't half-ass this. I really was a Yankee fan. I started complaining about how there aren't any real Yankees anymore, about how I missed Paul O'Neill more than life itself.
My comebacks gradually changed from well-crafted retorts into quick phrases like "1918," "Who's your daddy?" and "Jeter's better." I lost my friends after I yelled "26 world championships!" at my friend's mom as he introduced her to me.
Ah, the number 26. I guess I went a little overboard when I decided I would own exactly 26 pairs of socks and underwear. But hey, the pride of the Yankees needs loyal fans like me to keep it alive.
My parents stopped talking to me because I berated them about the fact that they didn't go to the theater before baseball games, and they believed that proper ballgame attire included a beer-and-mustard-stained jersey instead of a Perry Ellis business suit.
But to complete my nightly transformation, I knew I needed to make a pilgrimage to the one place where a Yankees fan is hated more than anywhere else in the world, the one place a person is better off wearing an Osama bin Laden T-shirt than a Derek Jeter jersey: Fenway Park.
So I went to the Davis Square T stop and got more dirty looks and averted eyes than I've ever received in my entire life. When I asked an MBTA employee why the train wasn't working, he told me to "take that damn Yankees shirt off!"
The watershed moment of my Yankee experience occurred while I was waiting for the train to come. I was struggling to think of the way I could be the most obnoxious to a pair of Red Sox fans to my right when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
"Yo, Yankees represent, son!" he said to me, and held out his hand. Without thinking, I gave him the high-five, smiled, and agreed. "Yeah," I said. "Yankees represent."
What had I done!? You see, for a brief moment, a millisecond even, I hadn't been in character. For that split-second, I had truly believed it. I had been a Yankees fan.
I ran out of the T station, tearing the pinstripes from my body as I went. I wanted to light the hat and jersey on fire to cleanse my soul, but instead I just shuddered my way back to Haskell Hall.
They say that to know your enemy, all you need to do is walk around in his shoes for a while. Just be careful that those shoes don't get too comfortable.
Will Herberich is a freshman. He can be reached at Willian.Herberich@tufts.edu
