Heartbreak is not a stranger to me. I have known it at the hands of men and even at the hands of people I thought were my friends but, worst and most often of all, I have suffered it because of my favorite sports team: the New York Yankees. If any person were to even try putting me through a quarter of what the Yanks have actually put me through, the relationship would be terminated; no questions asked, nothing left to be said.
I have just finished watching a Red Sox-Yankees game that lasted three hours and thirty-eight minutes. After a two-hour and forty-four-minute rain delay. Just to see the Yankees lose at the hands of the Red Sox for the fourth time this still (thankfully) young baseball season. But, for a diehard (and, not to mention, rather vocal) Yankees fan, this is four times too many. For one living in Boston, it feels like at least hundred-sixty-two times too many.
Even before this season, they have tested my loyalty. Letting Joe Torre leave New York with little fanfare. Failing to honor the little things that brought incredible successes in the late ‘90s. Placing faith in players who little deserved or warranted it. The list goes on and on.
But, still, I cheer for them. When they’re ahead, when they’re down. And I will continue to do so.
A friend of mine recently picked up and moved her entire life to Germany because she fell in love. Another friend is debating moving to Barcelona because he feels a connection with his sister’s friend and thinks it could be the real thing. And I? I don’t see myself getting on a jet plane for anyone soon but I certainly would follow the Yanks to the ends of the world.
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