Beantown boy bashes Yanks

I am stepping away from the hustle and bustle of the GW campus for a moment and into the final weeks of the Major League Baseball season. I am going out on a limb here and hope not to end up in a cast. I hate the Yankees (and the Mets – but not as much). I understand that I probably just alienated 73 percent of the GW student body with that statement. But ever since one of my professors used the Yankees as a symbol of perfection and all that is good in the world, I have been stewing and brooding over the imps from the Bronx. How can anyone in their right mind ever root for the boys in pinstripes?

I grew up in Vermont and have only ever really loved one baseball team: the Boston Red Sox. I know I may be abusing my power as a Hatchet page-two columnist to get my personal views across, but I believe it is my duty to save some of you Derek Jeter lovers and Mariano Rivera fans from the fiery depths of Yankee Stadium and all that burns in eternity with it. I know all your rebuttals to my argument: Buckner, Babe Ruth, 1918, Murderer’s Row, the Iron Horse, Bucky Dent and 25 World Championships. Shove it. No one can take away what I have in my heart as a fan of the men from South Boston.

You all may gloat and wave pennants in my face, but I am certain that I will laugh loudest in your faces some day. Yankees fans betray the very foundation that this country is founded on: yeomanship and hard work. Didn’t you guys swindle the Native Americans out of that land back in the day? You have fallen pray to the bright shine of the pile of gold that the horned George Steinbrenner shoved in front of your face; you are blind to prima facie pain but headed down the road toward infinite suffering. Red Sox fans suffer now but we know that you all quiver in fear. That’s right! Shake in your pinstripes over the stamina that we show and the conviction we hold so close to our hearts as the lights of Fenway dim too early in the fall sky. You are scared of me and uncertain as to where I summon my faith. How can anyone root for a team that doesn’t win? you might think. I say, Easily, with a cocked smile showing crooked teeth. My response sends a shimmy up your spine.

Yankees have ticker-tape parades that set the world on its heels, but I implore you to challenge the sheer elation of New England when Boston brings home the World Series. Statues of Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski and Dwight Evans will cry and bleed. Grown men will weep and women will bellow a lifetime of grief out on to the streets that will run red from people trying to dye their socks. Mark my words: there will be a New England baby-boom nine months from the day the Sox bring it home.

This article may not make sense to most of you and to others it may rile you, but I cannot sit idle as I watch fellow human beings make the wrong choice. Robert Frost wrote a poem titled The Road Not Taken, and the last three lines read as follows: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – / I took the one less traveled by, / And that has made all the difference. Any guesses as to where Mr. Frost was from?

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