The Day in the Life Of a New York Yankees Fan Living in Philadelphia

I was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1994 to a father with a blood oath to the New York Yankees. Growing up, the only thing I remember was waking up on cold November mornings hearing “The Yankees win, Thhhheee Yankees WIN” from a man that looked oddly similar to my dad on the YES Network. That man was John Sterling, radio play-by-play announcer of the MLB’s New York Yankees.

From the time I actually remember being alive, be that around age 2 to present, I’ve seen The Bronx Bombers make the playoffs 19 times, win 13 AL East Division titles, win 7 American League Pennants, and 5 World Series rings. The Yankees were god, and being a New Yorker, I was on the right side of human history — certainly I had a throne set for me in Heaven.

As I grew from baby bottle, to sippy cup, I grew from Yankee onesies to a baseball glove. You couldn’t take it out of my hands…and my mom couldn’t stop me from throwing a rubber Spalding ball against the brick fireplace in the house replicating Mr. November’s iconic across-the-body jump throws.

I broke windows, lamps, special dining china, half an acre of glass, all in the hopes that my juvenile training would grant me access to the gates of Yankee Stadium.

I was a die-hard Yankee fan at age 8, it was my religion.

But like all religious faithful, you come to a point where you have to make the fateful decision to either fall away or dive deeper.

What happened?

I’ll admit the Yankees slowly fell off my pedestal to girls. To music. To life. Though my dad continued to make remote control-shaped craters in his bedroom’s wall as the Yankees tumbled into averageness, my religion faded.

Where did all this once-everlasting passion die? Did it die when my pops, Joe Torre, left for the Dodgers? Did it die when Tino Martinez was swapped with Jason Giambi, or as my favorite pitching stylist El Duque got traded to the dysfunctional Montreal Expos, or as Bern-Baby-Bern left baseball to pursue a music career?

Yes.

As the Yankee Dynasty I once knew slowly broke apart, so did my unquestionable faith in Pinstripes.

At one time in my life, I can specifically remember having four VHS tapes, each narrating the four championship runs from the 1996/1998/1999/2000 seasons. I’d play them on repeat, studying each major strikeout, each bombastic home run — then I’d close my eyes, clutch my tiny Yankees-painted wooden bat, and swing in slow motion as I envisioned myself performing on that stage. This was my dream.

Now, the very idea of me watching hours of Yankee tape seems as though it was all a dream.

I used to live, eat, and breathe Yankees. My bedroom was a shrine to the Most High, my walls were adorned with all the Yankees saints, my closet was filled with so much Pinstripes it look as though I was harboring a zebra, my school books were replaced with autobiographies of the Great Bambino, Mickey Mantle, and Derek Jeter.

And to make it worse, now at age 23, I find myself in a brand new job, living in Philadelphia, avoiding any affiliation I once had to all New York and the New York Yankees like Saint Peter denying Jesus in the temple. How the Hell did this happen?

I found myself rooting for the Eagles in February, the Flyers in April, the 76ers last month, and the Phillies last week. Am I slowly being brainwashed by the city of brotherly love?

…F*CK that, F*CK the Eagles, F*CK the Flyers, F*CK the 76ers, F*CK the Phillies.

Yankees, New York, I’m coming home.