Damn Yankees.
Steinbrenner. Cashman. Jeter. A-Rod. Rivera. All of them.
As a Chicago Cubs fan, and therefore a member of the collective fan base of 29 less successful franchises, it is my duty, as sure as Manny will be late to spring training, to hate Them. The Evil Empire. And yet here they come lurking a mere 4? games out. Damn Yankees.
But as I watched your Red Sox lose the season series to these Yankees the other night, with my roommate storming out in disgust, I felt an unfamiliar tension in my face for the circumstances: it was a smile - a smirk, really. Subtle, but undeniable.
Surely that can't be right. Certainly just a freak muscular contraction, right? A malfunction even. I mean, obviously I couldn't be pleased with Them winning, right? Damn Yankees.
But I was.
Deep down in places you don't talk about, places where you didn't think Norbit was that bad a movie, places where you sing Aladdin songs in the shower, where you change the channel from CNN election coverage to Spongebob Squarepants - all the way deep down in there. I was happy the Red Sox lost.
And from an even deeper place, I knew why.
Allow me to take you back just a few seasons.
Everyone outside of New York was pulling for you, Red Sox fans. Sure, everyone rooted for you, but only your brothers in misery really understood the depths of your pain. Only your kindred spirits knew a "curse" was more than just playful fodder for the media.
Only us. Only Cubs fans.
Such was our tale of two cities. Except it was mostly just the worst of times. We were a fraternity, companions in the same great quest for redemption. We always stood by you, and you always stood by us. Because at the end of every season we both knew we would have each other's shoulders to cry on. We always found comfort in our mutually beleaguered red-jerseyed fans, while you found companionship in our Cubby blue. Red state and Blue state. A message of harmony and compassion for the whole nation.
Then came 2003. Our two fan bases collectively took our first few nervous steps out from behind the safety of the cynicism that had embittered us, but protected us (and our sanity) from decades of excruciating failure.
Just when we began to tiptoe towards that intersection of W. Addison St. and Yawkey Way to Hopeful-And-Cautiously-Optimistic-Bordering-On-Belief-But-For-Real-Don't-Toy-With-My-Heart-Like-That-If-You're-Not-Serious-This-Time Sq. it was all stolen.
Just when we were most vulnerable. Our hearts were ripped out - knocked away by Steve Bartman, mismanaged by Grady Little.
Bartman.
Grady.
As our hopes fell apart - again - Chicago and Boston held each other's hands through the haze of teary eyes.
And while audiences around the world turned their attention towards Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Britney and K-Fed, and Frodo's crumbling fellowship of the ring, Bostonians and Chicagoans knew our own fellowship was now stronger than ever and could never be undone.
But rings do indeed have a funny way of breaking up fellowships.
In 2004, as Cubs fans once again had their dreams dashed in an all too familiar late-season collapse, our companions strode forward with unprecedented confidence through the playoffs. Our pain was great, yet we lifted our heads to support our red stockinged brethren.
We sat on your couches and cheered David Ortiz's walk off homerun through our bitterness. We kept the light on for you while you went out to Yawkey Way to celebrate. And we were happy for you, forcing a smile for you through our own torment as you held your parade, gave new Cub Nomar Garciappara a playoff bonus, and sent a bloody sock to Cooperstown.
Our need for companionship was greater than it had ever been. We were alone now among the halls of the cursed, and these cavernous halls echoed with the sounds of the bittersweet departure of our dear Red Sox. We needed comfort; we needed reassurance; and most importantly, we needed the open arms of our brothers. So while we turned our backs towards the pitying pats of the baseball masses, we turned our hearts to you, Boston.
What we got was another pat on the back.
I thought being a displaced Cubs fan in Boston would be second-best, comfort-wise, to Wrigleyville. But it has been a cold three winters in Boston for Cubs fans, and it isn't because of the blizzards. Whether you meant to or not, Red Sox fans, you have forsaken us.
Now, I understand that any championship, especially one as special as yours, will sprout thousands of bandwagon braggart fans ready to rub it in. That's fine. It's inevitable, and I don't hold the rest of you accountable. But I've heard more low blows and seen more snubbed noses than I care to recount since Oct. 27, 2004.
And certainly there are some of you honoring our relationship, our brotherhood, our pact. There are some of you noble souls out there who exude comfort rather than superiority, and I thank you from the bottom of my Cubby blue heart.
But it has to be better than that. Just watch an episode of "Pardon the Interruption," read the sports section of a Midwestern newspaper or listen to a West Coast sports radio station, and it is clear: people are growing weary of the Red Sox.
You are no longer quite so lovable. When people say they're sick of the damn Yankees now, you're just as likely to hear them say they're sick of the damn Yankees and the damn Red Sox.
"Damn Red Sox."
...Scary isn't it?
I offer this piece not so much as an admonishment, but as a warning and a plea from some old friends. Let us bridge this schism now, because if this article doesn't reach across the great divide, well, let's just say I don't want to be rooting for the Yankees anymore. So, from Cubs fans everywhere (and yes, I have that authority), please heal these wounds. We've done all we can do.
In your ultimate joy, Red Sox fans, remember where you came from. Be mindful of the purity of baseball: The things that kept you going when that championship was so very far away.
For with every fan that exchanges a respectful purist's attitude for a "what have you done for me lately" attitude, Red Sox Nation takes a step away from its noble roots and a step towards, dare I say, the Yankees.
You have been our closest friend; don't be a casual acquaintance. You're better than that, Boston. With your victory, you left us in the ranks of lovable losers alone - but don't leave us lonely.
