esruc eht esrever

I didn’t feel this way last week. The Yankees jumped out to a quick three game lead and it was over before I could even begin to root against them. The tide has changed.

Call me a bandwagon fan, but let’s reverse this curse tonight!

I have no allegiance to the Red Sox; as a matter of fact I don’t particularly like any of these guys. Martinez is a punk, Francona is just riding Schilling’s coat tails and they all need a hair cut. But the feeling I have this morning is one of hope.

My name is Jonathan and I am a Mets fan.

As a child I marched across the grass at Shea Stadium with a banner that read “My two favorite teams are the Mets and anyone playing the Yankees.” I slept with a cup full of grass and dirt from the Shea outfield on my nightstand. I couldn’t sleep for weeks after the 2000 series.

The past few seasons have been lost ones for me as a fan. Even I didn’t get excited when they were ½ game out at the All-Star break. I knew better. I stopped paying attention. I forgot for a few months that I hate the Yankees.

I woke up last night. Watching A-Rod complain to the ump was beautiful. Watching Jeter pout in the dugout filled my heart with warmth.

The phrase ‘historic collapse’ is something that I look forward to talking about with every Yankee fan I know. As an Islander fan I was destroyed when I could no longer cheer 1940. This could replace that.

If Boston wins tonight I will stop rooting for them and begin rooting for a new curse.

The curse of the Rocket.

Yankees fans: Spoiled brats

Enough already!

Yankees fans, we are tired of your act -- your spoiled rotten, childish, embarrassing act. For years you've flooded the airwaves with desperate cries for superfluous superstars. You've routinely bashed one of the great managers in postseason history. You've acted like winning the World Series is a your God-given right, not your once-or-twice-in-a-lifetime a privilege.

Now this.

You ruined a perfectly good baseball game -- good in contrast to Saturday night's mind-numbing 19-8 snorefest -- with your idiotic behavior. You defied the meaning of sportsmanship and humiliated yourselves, your team and your city.

There's an expression John Sterling, Michael Kay and the rest of the Yankee proletariate like to use: "The Yankee Way." It's supposed to represent a higher standard, as if World Series rings buy you class or perspective. After last night's game, the only thing The Yankee Way represents is a panicked fan culture that has alienated itself in many ways with its moronic behavior.

As I watched debris cascade onto the Yankee Stadium field last night and Alex Rodriguez made his absurd denials, I couldn't help but think to myself, These are not the Yankees fans of old. I thought of the fans I remembered from 1996. They were a fresh-faced group of diehards who'd been longing for a champion since 1981. They were like the '96 team itself. Scrappy. Homegrown. Bursting with energy and enthusiasm. But last night's audience seemed nervous, frustrated, confused. They were an anxious, obnoxious bunch impatiently waiting for their $200 million bats to wake up, numbed to the pure excitement of playoff baseball by years of storebought victory.

So when a few calls didn't go their way, they reacted the way spoiled children do: They threw a temper tantrum. It was a sad way for a proud team to go down, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for the fans who know that winning does not entitle you to more winning. The ones who managed to keep their baseballs and popcorn in their laps.

When I think of the '96 Yanks I'll always remember Charlie Hayes' clinching catch and Wade Boggs' jubiliant trot around the Stadium. But if the Yanks choke away this 3-0 lead, my lasting memory may just be A-Rod's swat, and the NYPD ringing the Stadium walls.

Cue the Dark Vader music...

It's official, I've gone over to the dark side. The minute David Ortiz's home run left the ballpark, I signed up for the Yankee bandwagon.

Don't worry, folks. It's only temporary. Very, very, very temporary. Like two-games-long temporary.

That's how long I'm hoping it will take the Yankees to oust the game, but clearly undermanned Minnesota Twins. It's got nothing to do with a dislike for the Twins, nor a disdain for the sympathetic darlings of baseball in Boston. I haven't been snorting or sniffing anything and I'm not a madman.

I'm just a baseball romantic with a soft spot for history... And I'm a glutton for punishment.

I foolishly rooted for the Yankees to beat Seattle in the 2000 ALCS, so that we could have the first Subway Series in 44 years. A tortured Mets fan, I truly believed my miracle men could pull off the greatest wonder of all: Beating the dynastic, turn-of-the-century Yanks in a World Series for the ages. Alas, I was misguided, and I sat slumped in the left field mezzanine as the Bronx Bullies celebrated their 26th World Series on Shea Stadium turf.

Four years later, I haven't learned my lesson. I find myself again pulling for the Evil Empire, with no clear reward on the other side of the darkness but a chance to see baseball history. I envision a Yankees-Red Sox ALCS like the one that teased, tortured, and tantalized us for seven scintillating games last October. I picture beanballs, brushbacks, heart-breaking losses, astounding comebacks, Rivera and Schilling dueling to the finish in Game 7. As a baseball fan, I find it so hard to resist that.

So if you don't catch me around the Island muttering "effing Yankees" for the next few days, you'll know why. I've traded in my light saber and white cape for James Earl Jones and the keys to the Death Star. (You've gotta admit, it's a powerful machine.)

But as soon as Jeter circles the bases with the winning run in Game 4, I'll be back to my usual self. I'll pull for history; only this time, I'll hope it's the Red Sox who make it, at the Yankees' considerable expense.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go take a shower. A long one.