In praise of pinstripes
In honor of opening day, or rather of opening weekend, we got to wear jerseys to work. Very few people did, but I, of course, wore my #33 Red Sox jersey. My friend R came in, just as I was leaving, and the front end got the rare view of a Yankee fan and a Red Sox fan hugging. (It’s ok, we threatened each other a minute later).
Despite all the grief I give R over the life choices she’s made to support the Yankees (and I blame her parents), I’m really not all that anti-Yankee. They just make an easy target. After all, what’s life without a little competition? In fact, what’s life without a little antagonism? Don’t our challenges define us? And what, or who better, to challenge us than an arch-enemy?
Granted, I’m a Cold War baby. The Soviet Union didn’t actually come apart till my senior year of college, so I still have this image of them as being an all-powerful menace. In the seventies and eighties it seemed to me (as a child, which is probably a hell of lot more perceptive than an adult) that America was defined not so much by what we stood for, but by who our “enemy” was. We were not “them.” Yeah, well, that doesn’t actually provide a definition.
But sometimes having that clear image what you are “not” helps you focus on what you “are”. Take away everything superfluous or unwanted, and there you are, so to speak.
I am not “not a Yankee fan”. I am a Red Sox fan. As for everything else, well, I’m working on it.