The Anti-Bostonian: The case for a LOUD introduction

I don’t hate necessarily hate you. Just accept that we’re different.

When rooting for Boston athletics, you quintessentially cheer for the antithesis for my existence: a strong, anti-New York attitude. You root for the exceptional yet down-to-earth common man: Tom Brady with his 5.28 40-yard dash time, Bruins bruiser Shawn Thornton, or maybe psycho Joe Kelly. Hell, you’ll even lionize renowned benchwarmer Brian Scalabrine and turn him into one of the greatest sports memes of all time (I digress).

You root for the hard workers, the united team, the industrious collective. Perhaps some of my animosity comes from the perception of a New Yorker who feels guilty over supporting the deep-pocketed Yankees or the all-glitz-no-rings Knicks. Perhaps I seek a collective of such energy that I can feel invested in. Perhaps I seek the underdog, the little David instead of Goliath. Perhaps New York is overrated. Perhaps. 

While it might be in poor taste to compare Boston and New York to David and Goliath, I feel that the athletic comparison also trickles its way into a more general perception of the two cities. New York carries the baggage of big-spending, bribery, Wall Street shadiness. There’s a corporate, top-down mindset that must have seeped into the plumbing, because us inhabitants all possess a subtle arrogance.

So, what are you rooting for when you support New York sports? While the Giants may have at least recently partially altered the narrative, you’re rooting for certainty. You’re rooting for the “oh, our players are more famous and more expensive, we have to win.” You root for Carmelo Anthony, Alex Rodriguez, Rex Ryan, bona fide scum in the eyes of everyone else. Yes, the Giants were underdogs, and so too the narratives of Jeremy Lin and Henrik Lundqvist. These are lovable exceptions. Not norms.

There is a sort of moral hurdle I feel like I dodge every time I defend my fandom of the Yankees. It’s as if I’m supporting this mass, faceless machine that simply plugs in money and churns out results, personified by their policy of “no-facial hair.” They are grey faces with corporate-styled and bright-white Pinstripe uniforms, not unlike a suit that could be found in the wardrobe for American Psycho.

There’s an urge to paper over the cracks in my justification, swallowing my pride while claiming my Yankee fandom. Similar to how I fully understand that the Boston T is a better system than New York’s still-crumbling MTA, I just won’t admit it openly (whoops). I can chirp, “wowwww, your trains are colors," "too clean for a subway" or “you call that busy?” All remnants of a fragile ego.

But at the end of the day, I just eat it up.

Maybe it’s just me, but who wouldn’t want to be given a persona? I've been given an assigned, socially acceptable way to act. I am the corporate, possibly-scandalous, potentially-greedy, definitely arrogant, always-running-late New Yorker. I am a Yankees man, and we spend money to win. Deal with it.

And Sox fans, by the way, who had a higher payroll this year?