CAP SIGHTING:
Last night's (6/1/05)
telecast of the Sox/Orioles
game by ESPN featured
a YH cap sighting and
reference. ESPN's cameras
fixed on two young fans
enjoying ice cream at
the game. One of the girls
was wearing one of our
authentic
"YH Horns" caps. The commentators
correctly identified the
cap as "not a Yankee cap,
but rather a Yankee Hater
cap" and opined that being
a Sox fan is synonymous
with being a Yankee Hater.
Thanks for the exposure,
ESPN!
HAPPY
RETURNS (Part II) [Note:
This is a continuation
of HAPPY RETURNS,
Part I, which appears
below]
BOSTON,
MA, APRIL 16, 2005: You
can't always get what
you want. Mick Jagger
says so. And since
he's roll-n-roll's
version of the Pope,
his logic must be
infallible.
But
Mick sliced the issue
a little too thin, as
figureheads are prone
to doing. The real challenge
to "wanting" is determining
the end result that
will evolve from the
thing that is seemingly
desired. At the time,
every Sox fan wanted
(needed?)a Boston win
in Game 3 of the ALCS.
But, looking back, not
one of these same souls
would change the result
of that game. As it
turns out, you don't
always need what you
want.
But
after too much deep
thought, I decided that
what I wanted (needed?)
on this day was a cold
drink. About a half-hour
later, my friend Pete
and I were watching
the pedestrian traffic
on Newbury Street stroll
by. We broke up the
experience with sips
of Japanese beer and
healthy portions of
Thai food. Bargoers
call the consumption
of food "laying a base." And
when you have six hours
to kill before Fenway
Franks and Budweiser,
you damn well better
adhere to tavern axioms
in order to stay afloat.
Darting
around Boston wouldn't
be complete without
a stop to Champions
Sports Bar in the Boston
Marriott Copley Square.
This was the first place
that allowed us to promote
our YH caps within its
confines last year.
To this day, it is one
of the only places in
Boston where you can
buy authentic YankeesHater.com
gear. We crushed a drink
there, talked to the
staff some, and then
hit the streets again.
This whole "killin'
time" thing was really
starting to have a liberating
feel to it.
We
eventually meandered
back to Fenway Park,
and decided to hit the
new on-premises bar, Game
On!. We were initially
disappointed when the
doorman instructed us
to head downstairs to
the basement level.
How many times has a
basement bar been dark,
damp and dreary? But,
again, you don't always
have the ability to
know what you truly
want. This particular
basement is high-tech,
hip and bustling. The
bar is underlit in Red
Sox red, and an array
of flat-screen TVs are
mounted on steel piping
architecture. The collection
of colorful liquor bottles
in the center of the
bar is accentuated with
a shower of North-sent,
beaming light. In a
word: cool. You can
order beer here, but
cocktails seemed more
appropriate. With plenty
of Bud waiting inside
Fenway's gates, a vodka
club soda got the nod.
Bargoers call the mixing
of beer and liquor "a
bad idea." But what
the hell do they know?
They sit in bars all
day long. Down the hatch.
It
wasn't long before we
were inside Fenway Park,
watching the Rays and
Sox with Fenway Franks
in hand. A lot has changed
since my last trip here.
Some things never will.
Our seats in right field
gave us a clear view
of Pesky's Pole. But
we also had a pretty
good view of the bleachers
where, later in the
game, the crowd literally
ran a Yankees-cap-wearing
fan out of the house.
Can't provide the details,
because I don't know
them, but the scenario
ended with the Yanks
fan being escorted out
by security amid a "Yankees
Suck" chant. Regarding
the chant, the middle-aged
woman to my right said,
"I hate that. We won the
World Series, and we still
have an inferiority complex." Definitely
not the right time for
me to say, "Hi, I'm Mike,
CEO of YankeesHater.com.
Damn glad to meet you." Wanted
to. Was tempted to. Didn't.
And
it wasn't just the fans
who were in the anti-Yankees
spirit. The only MLB
highlight shown on the
Diamondvision all night
was a game-losing HR
served up by Yankees
reliever Tom Gordon
against the Orioles.
When the footage stopped,
the following text appeared: "The
Yankees' current 4-7
record represents their
worst start since 1991."
The crowd cheered mightily.
Chalk one up for the house.
The
details of the game
are forgotten now, but
the Sox did beat the
Devil Rays that night.
The crowd left happy,
and Pete later said
that Fenway Park had
rekindled his interest
in baseball again.
"Why?", I asked. "The
city is so completely
behind this team," Pete
said. "and going to Fenway
is like a throw-back experience.
For the most part, it's
all about the baseball
team and its fans. Very
different from Yankee
Stadium, with its corporate
atmosphere and all of
the advertising distractions." In
my mind, I applauded Pete
for his observation and
for serving it up in an
anti-Yankees bun. For
both of us, going back
to Fenway Park was exactly
what we needed. And on
a sunny spring day in
Boston, who could want
more than that?
HAPPY
RETURNS (Part I)
BOSTON,MA;
APRIL 16, 2005:
The strange thing
about morgues is that
every now and then,
the body in the drawer
starts kicking.
This
is the imagery running
through my mind as I
pack Fenway--my labrador/beagle
mix--into the car and
prepare to depart northern
NJ en route to Boston.
I've got two tickets
for the day's game against
the Devil Rays. I'll
pick up my friend Pete
in Westport, CT and
later unload the pup
at a family member's
home in Sturbridge,
MA. From there, it will
be just an hour's drive
to Fenway Park. The
Fenway Park that I had
last seen on the day
of Game 3 of the 2004
ALCS.
The
trip marks a return
to Fenway Park for Pete
as well, though the
circumstances are substantially
different. As a life-long
Mets fan, he finds little
reason in his adult
life to travel 3 hours
to Boston for a baseball
game. However, he fondly
remembered his last
trip to Fenway as a
child, more than 20
years ago. Plus, we
had arranged a tee time
the following day in
Massachusetts. So Fenway
Park it was.
The
previous night, I inquired
about the game's start
time, as the time was
not printed on my tickets.
Instead, the non-committal "TBD" appeared
in the place where the
time should have been.
This is one of the few
disadvantages of having
early-printed season
tickets. "I think it's
1 p.m." someone said.
I quickly translated
that statement to mean "1
p.m."
Mistake.
We
parked at the Prudential
Center and traversed
the half-mile or so
to the ballpark. Upon
arrival, the scene was
not what we expected.
Beer trucks loaded kegs
into the stadium. A
few dozen people strolled
down Lansdowne Street.
The street vendors were
invisible. Uh Oh. It
was pretty clear that
we were working on bad
logistics. Shortly thereafter,
we determined that the
game was slated for
a 7 p.m. start. Suddenly,
we had six hours to
kill. A good problem.
Particularly if you're
fond of touring pubs
in the middle of the
day. And we are.
So
off we went, in search
of Newberry Street.
We got off the line
so quickly, in fact,
that I nearly walked
past the 2004 Championship
banner on Yawkey Way
without looking up.
But for the middle-aged
woman striking a pose
under the banner--and
her camera-clutching
husband nearby--I might
have missed a great
moment. Looking up at
the banner, all of the
misery of ALCS Game
3 rushed back. Late
in that game, I left
my seat near left field
and sauntered out to
the Yawkey Way concession
area for my last Fenway
beer of the season.
It had been a memorable
year personally, as
the YH hats became known
nationally after several
key Sox players put
them on. Perhaps, I
thought at the time,
a desire for a happy
ending was a bit gluttonous.
Maybe it was time to
accept Fenway Park for
what it truly was at
that moment: a morgue.
Back
in the present, I stared
up at the 2004 banner.
In what felt like an
out-of-body experience,
I replayed the "last
beer" ritual in my mind.
The beer was consumed
in the area just under
the place where the
new banner was now hanging.
Let's be honest: it
took us all a while
to hear the kicking
inside the drawers.
Certainly, the noise
was not discernible
during Game Three. But
somewhere between the
end of Game Four and
the final pitch of Game
Seven, we realized that
something rare was happening.
A magical Sox season
was going to survive
after all, days after
its obituary had been
written in the New York
tabloids and wired to
the rest of the world.
HORNS & TAILS
They Hate ‘em in St. Louis,
too! The Cardinals did their part to keep the Yanks’
in a tailspin this weekend, possibly inspired by the words
of St. Louis columnist Kathleen Nelson. Nelson wrote a very
insightful column on Friday (6/10/05) titled “10 Reasons
to Hate the Yankees”. A key stat revealed in the piece:
the Yankees have just six world championships since 1962,
while the Boston Celtics have 11 since that time. Pretty
good perspective, given that most of the punks who yap about
NY’s 26 rings are younger than 43 years. NY tops Boston
in the sports department? Not in their lifetime. Nelson
also compares the Cardinals’ Stan Musial and the Yanks’
Joe DiMaggio (Stan’s better). Read
the entire column here
YANKEESHATER.COM IN THE MEDIA: Our
caps creep into Stephen King's most-recent book, Faithful;
David Ortiz cooks in his kitchen with his authentic YankeesHater.com
headgear as the NESN cameras roll; and an ESPN-based Hater
includes us in his anti-Yankees book, The Devil Wears
Pinstripes. Read further (below)for more details.
YANKEES-HATIN' AT ESPN: ESPN
Page 2 columnist Jim Caple, a noted YH'er, unleashed his
new book this week. The new book, titled The Devil Wears
Pinstripes, tells it the way we like to hear it: truthfully.
Excerpt: "What I find most interesting in the hate mail
I receive is that the vast majority of Yankees fans simply
cannot fathom the possibility that anyone could hate their
team unless he or she also roots for the Red Sox...The thing
is, though, people hate the Yankees everywhere...Brazilian
researchers recently discovered an Indian tribe in so remote
a part of the Amazon that these natives had never been exposed
to western society. Although I cannot absolutely, positively
voucher for this, I believe that the only words they were
able to understand were "Jeter sucks." If you're on this
website, you'll love Caple's book. You can order it at Amazon.com.
(Posted 3/7/05)
WAR OF WORDS CONTINUES...TROT'S TURN:
While there are thousands (millions?)of people who hate
the Yankees, the Sox seem content to focus on a single Yankee:
Alex Rodriguez. Assuming you consider him to be a true Yankee
in the first place: "When people ask me about the Yankees,
I tell them about Jeter and Bernie Williams and Posada,"
said Trot Nixon. "I don't tell them about Rodriguez." Nixon
apparently didn't like A-Rod's jab at players who commit
their off-season time to their kids: "Like Rodriguez says,
he's running stairs at 6 in the morning while I'm sleeping
and taking my kids to school. I'm like, 'Well, I'm not a
deadbeat dad, Alex'." Nixon also didn't care for A-Rod's
whiny display after Rodriguez was called out after the now-infamous
"slap play" involving Sox pitcher Bronson Arroyo: "You're
the one that swung the bat and hit that little nubber down
there." It is possible to like this group of Red Sox any
more?
(Posted 2/9/05)
"YANKEE HATER" MAKES TOP 10 LIST
OF 2004's MOST POLITICALLY-CHARGED PHRASES: The phrase
"Yankee Hater" was identified as one of the top ten most
"politically-charged" phrases in 2004, according to the
Global Language Monitor. No joke. The GLM is a serious organization,
comprised of expert linguists and bibliophiles who monitor
language trends and examine their impact on various aspects
of culture. There's been no word from the GLM camp as to
whether or not the phrase "Greedy Bastards" is a front-runner
for the 2005 list.
(Posted 2/8/05)
A-ROD vs. SCHILL: THE DIFFERENCE
THAT ONE YEAR CAN MAKE IN THE LIFE OF A MAJOR LEAGUER
The Yankees' Alex Rodriguez made waves over the past few
weeks, as he took several jabs at Boston's Curt Schilling.
Excerpt from A-Rod: "To me, it was just odd, because I mean
we beat him a couple of times during the year and he was
crying on the bench. And then he lost Game 1 (of the ALCS)
and he wouldn't talk or anything. And, obviously, he wins
Game 6 and then he's still talking 'til today." Schill,
of course, quickly considered the source and wisely concluded
that A-Rod was trying to motivate his teammates by inflaming
the situation: "If that's what he needs, cool," Schilling
said. A-Rod went on to admit that he took the loss to Boston
very hard: "It's been hard to sleep thinking about that."
Inspired by this exchange of words, we decided to draw up
a list of the differences between these two high-profile
players. Here goes:
10.Schilling walks with a gait
that most of us would recognize as masculine and human.
A-Rod jogs with a gait that is best-described as a gazelle
mating prance.
9.After getting doinked by Bronson
Arroyo during the regular season, A-Rod spends months plotting
revenge and ultimately selects the "limp-wristed, forearm
slap" as his rebuttal of choice. Schill gets roughed up
in Game 1 of the ALCS and opts to get even quickly by stifling
Yankees hitters with a gutsy Game 6 performance that everyone
(not just Schill) is still talking about.
8. Schill could buy a hotdog
at his home stadium in late October. A-Rod couldn't.
7.The stitching of Jason Varitek's
glove gets introduced to A-Rod's running mouth, and the
game later ends in a Sox win. The stitching of Boston's
team doctor gets introduced to Schill's ankle, and the game
later ends in a Sox win.
6.The good-natured Schilling
arrives in Boston and immediately amuses the Sox faithful
with entertaining Dunkin Donuts commercials that show him
struggling as he practices his Boston accent. The self-important
A-Rod is targeted by MTV's Punk'd (all in good fun) but
gets upset and later demands that the tapes of the prank
be destroyed.
5. Schill is sleeping just fine
these days.
4.Diamondbacks struggle after
Schilling's departure. The Rangers become one of baseball's
most-improved teams after A-Rod flies the coop.
3. The biggest controversy surrounding
Schill's teammate at first base is his decision to keep
a historical World Series ball. The biggest controversy
surrounding A-Rod's teammate at first base is, well, you
know...
2. Manager's words of wisdom
to Schilling as spring training approaches: "Keep doing
what you're doing." Manager's words of wisdom to A-Rod as
spring training approaches: "If you're not part of the solution,
you're part of the problem."
1. Schill's got the '04 World
Series bling-ring!
(Posted 2/6/05)
LIVING IN THE PAST:While flipping
through the TV channels last night, I had to pass through
the YES network (for the uninitiated, this is the channel
that televises all of the Yankees games). It was showing
Game Seven of the 2003 ALCS, with a little graphic in the
upper right-hand corner of the screen that read "Yankees
Classic". Is this airing really supposed to make the Yankees
fans happy? Frankly, I know a fair number of Sox fans who
now cherish that same game, because it helped build-up the
most dramatic and cathartic post-season victory (2004 ALCS)
of all time. No longer do any of us feel the need to give
Aaron Boone a "special" middle name. These days, it's simply
Aaron Boone. So keep showing that Yankees Classic, YES.
We like how the sequel ends.
(Posted 2/1/05)
WORLD SERIES TROPHY ABOUT TO PASS
THROUGH THE BERKSHIRES:The current word on the street
is that the World Series trophy will be passing though the
Berkshires in Massachusetts this weekend, with Johnny Damon
and Trot Nixon possibly in tow. One of the scheduled stops
is the Locker Room sports bar in Lee, MA. We have
thrown back a few drinks in that bar over the past few years.
In fact, one of its waitresses--Dana O'Brien--was one of
the first people to ever wear a Yankees Hater cap. We gave
Dana a couple of the early prototypes about a year ago (long
before Curt Schilling and David Ortiz wore the caps). We
were anxious to hear about the comments she received from
her customers as she wore the cap in the bar. Dana's early
feedback led us to believe that we might be successful with
these caps. That was the sort of feedback we needed to push
on with our project. The rest is history. If you are in
the area this weekend, make sure to stop in to the Locker
Room (located on Main St. in Lee, MA) and say hello to Dana.
Who knows: you might also get a chance to see the trophy
and a few Sox players passing through.
(Posted 1/30/05)
SOUTH BOSTON RESIDENT: I'VE GOT YOUR
PARKING SPOT RIGHT HERE! Nora Lyons, a YH cap owner
and website visitor, sent us the following snippet from
South Boston: "On the Channel 5 news tonight, they were
interviewing people from "Southie" [South Boston] who can
no longer save shoveled-out parking spots with the traditional
lawn chairs, road cones and milk crates. One guy--particularly
mad about the major's decision on the matter--was wearing
an unmistakable Yankees Hater hat! I believe it was the
[blue] Fenway's Reverse cap." [Editor's Note: We're always
happy to see our YH caps get air time (so thanks for the
head-up, Nora!), but there's a bigger issue here. Let's
see if we can get this straight: a guy gets up at the crack
of dawn to shovel 16 inches of snow away from the parking
space in front of his home, and is expected to keep his
gasket intact when an opportunistic motorist nabs the spot
as the resident darts up the street to get some milk and
bread? Let's write a sample police blotter entry right now:
South Boston, 6:23 a.m.-- Dermott McGlinty was cited for
disorderly conduct after shoveling three feet of snow behind
the rear wheels of a parked car owned by Aurelio Sanchez.].
(Posted 1/30/05)
BIG PAPI USES YH CAP AS CHEF'S HAT:Mike
Chase--a presumed Sox fan and website visitor--writes: "First
off, I like what you're doing with the site and the clothing,
mucho grande props. I was watching the FAITH REWARDED
DVD's "special features" the other day and flipped on the
segment of David Ortiz cooking [in his kitchen] when I noticed
his hat. It was none other than a genuine Yankees Hater
hat. I'm sure this has been mentioned to you 89,000 times
since the segment aired, but I figured I'd let you know
anyway. Rock on and keep the hatred flowing...2004 World
Series Champs. [Editors Note: The FAITH REWARDED
DVD--created by NESN--is a chronicle of the Red Sox historic
2004 season. As Mike notes, there are some extra features
on the DVD, one of which shows a very Martha Stewart-like
Ortiz cooking up a storm in his kitchen as his NESN guest
and his family hungrily await the final results. Throughout
the cooking session, Ortiz dons one of our authentic red
"YH w/ Horns" caps. Thanks for serving it up right, Big
Papi!]
(Posted 1/5/05)
OUR CAPS ARE IMMORTALIZED IN STEPHEN
KING'S NEW BOOK, "FAITHFUL": This has been the oddest
sort of year for our business. At this time last year, we
were hand-sketching prospective "YH" logos and negotiating
the purchase of the "Yankeeshater.com" domain name(which
was originally owned by two brothers in Connecticut; purchase
price: $400). A list of thrilling experiences has transpired
since: the Sox won the Series; Curt Schilling appeared in
a now-infamous Boston Herald photo, wearing the cap (lots
of TV, radio and newspaper exposure followed); and, now,
Stephen King has written the caps into his newly-released
book "Faithful". It's hard to imagine that the only objective
for this business at the outset was to send a few jabs in
the direction of my merciless, Yankee-loving colleagues.
What a strange ride it has been.
At one point in "Faithful", Stephen
King sends one of our lesser-known caps to his co-author
as a gift (the Boston Version of the cap): "Hating
the Yankees is very much in vogue, but since we were doing
it long before Yankee-hating was cool (outside of New England,
that is), I am sending you your own YANKEES HATER hat, with
the spiffy yh intertwined logo on the front." [S.
King, in a May 7, 2004 email to co-author Stewart O'Nan,
as published on page 103 of "Faithful"]. King, however,
favored the more-popular "YH Horns" version for his personal
use: "I'm back in Maine rather than at Fenway Park or at
Yankee Stadium, where a sparse crowd is watching the rare
afternoon game, but I'm once again wearing my bright red
YANKEES HATER cap..." [S. King's diary entry for Sept. 29,
2004, as appearing on page 325 of "Faithful"]. Much thanks
to Stephen King and Stewart O'Nan for writing such an instant-classic
for Sox fans. And thanks for mentioning the caps!
ANOTHER VICTORY PULLED FROM THE JAWS
OF DEFEAT!: Pat Nolan, a member of the YankeesHater.com
staff, won a $10,000 entry into the World Series of Poker
in Las Vegas, NV in July 2005 with an amazing victory in
a local (N.J.) poker tournament. Nolan took the Red Sox
approach to victory: with just one rival standing between
him and the World Series, his chances dwindled to dust (at
one point, he had just enough to cover the ante) before
he made an unthinkable run to pull off the victory! Now
he's planning to play for the ultimate poker crown and the
millions of dollars that goes with it! Rumor has it that
the second-place finisher was a Yankees fan. Classic.
FIGHT, STRIP or PLAY
SPARTA, NJ, Nov. 22, 2004 --
The NFL and NBA are back in the limelight, thanks to nudity
and violence, respectively. You've got to go with what you
know, right?
The NFL kicked off the week with a towel-dropping
lockerroom promo on Monday Night Football. No wardrobe malfunction
this time. By the next day, no one seemed to be able to
remember anything significant about the game itself.
A few days later, the NBA's Ron Artest
got a beer shower from the hometown Detroit fans after hard-fouling
Ben Wallace in the Motor City. He bolted into the stands
and chased down the most frightened white boy you'll ever
see. A mere riot followed. Wasn't it just a week ago that
Artest confided in about 20 million of us that the "girl
band" on his rap record label was working on an album about
love? Yeah, OK. This guy may be the most understood
athlete of our time.
It takes events like these to come to
ground-shaking revelations. Here's one: Thank God for the
Yankees. Yes, those Yankees. The same Yankees who many of
us hate. The same Yankees whose fans chanted "1918" mercilessly
for years. And the same Yankees who will soon gorge themselves
on the finest and most expensive items on the Scott Boras
menu. I'll need to go back roughly 20 years to fill in the
pieces of this revelation. Back we go.
The setting is a sold-out Grateful Dead
concert at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center in upstate
New York. There's a steel, wire-mesh fence that surrounds
the sprawling lawn abutting the amphitheatre. The band takes
the stage, but the best show in the house is playing out
on that steel fence. That's where dozens of ticketless have-nots
are poised to jump the barrier and join the revelry of the
concert crowd. There's one major problem: the presence of
about 20 angry security guards. The ones with the rolled-up
short-sleeves and the crazy-eyed-killer looks on their faces.
Here's the drill: the go-getter of the group counts to three,
at which point a human wave ascends the fence and makes
a mad dash into the crowd. Naturally, several fence-jumpers
will be gang-tackled and arrested. But dozens succeed. This
was perhaps my first encounter with reality entertainment.
Boy was it good.
I remember sitting on the concert lawn,
rooting for the fence-jumpers and booing the security guards
when they made a capture. I hated the guards. But the experience
would not have been the same without them. In fact, without
the guards there would not have been an experience at all.
Just a group of badly-dressed freaks struggling to climb
a fence. No one would have paid any attention to that. Unless,
of course, they broke into a naked-fest or started to pummel
each other.
The Yankees are the security guards.
Hated, but essential to the experience. The more uneven
the playing field, the more we can pay attention to the
sport without the need for a daily dog-and-pony trick. Scott
Boras, who has often been named as baseball's Public Enemy
No. 2 (behind the Yankees) by those small-market martyr
types, was right when he said: "Without Goliaths, baseball
would be the NFL, where you have no idea who's any good
until eight weeks into the season. I think Goliaths in sports
are wonderful." It is the process of unveiling the next
"David" that makes all of us watch, even as we hate the
dark empire that always seems to be tending the fence.
JUST DO...SOMETHING
BLUE BELL, PA, Nov. 1, 2004 --
It's easy to feel small standing next to Curt Schilling.
He's an imposing figure, and you know that at any moment
he could pick you up at will, plant you in a batter's box,
and then hurl fastballs by you with enough intensity to
create the world's largest dry cleaning bill. In a word:
scary.
Frankly, I'd rather face Curt Schilling
than his wife, Shonda. She's the tough one.
Both were on hand Monday night for the
11th annual Curt Schilling ALS Golf Outing at the Meadowlands
Country Club in Blue Bell, PA. I expected to be star-struck
by No. 38, whose legacy as a star pitcher has continued
to unfold over the past few weeks in gripping battles with
the New York Yankees and St. Louis Cardinals. One lasting
image of the A.L. championship series is the crimson hue
of Schilling's bloody sock after a torn sheath around an
ankle tendon was stitched prior to a game against the Bronx
Bombers (in fact, Schilling wore a boot-like shoe on his
injured ankle on this night, and used a single crutch to
support his own weight). Talk about tough. Still, it's par
for the course in the Schilling family.
"A reporter asked me about the bloody
sock," Shonda Schilling said, in addressing a room of onlookers
at the ALS benefit, "I'm incredibly proud (of Curt), but
now if he gets a sniffle, he'll get no sympathy from me."
Ah, the drawbacks of raising the toughness bar. Of course,
Shonda would know plenty about that. Three years ago, she
was diagnosed with malignant stage two melanoma (skin cancer)
on her back. At the time, the Schillings were enjoying the
good life: the couple had three children (they now have
four children) and Curt was flourishing with the Arizona
Diamondbacks. Curt Schilling intimated that he still remembers
the numbness that overtook him when he received the phone
call that brought the news to light. From there, it was
a matter of receiving treatment and moving on with life.
Shonda's own version of the bloody sock. Times one thousand.
Looking back, the Schillings view Shonda's
diagnosis as purposeful. But for the diagnosis, it's unlikely
that Shonda's work with SHADE--an organization that raises
awareness of skin cancer risk factors--would have materialized.
In fact, they seem to have a soulful take on most things
in their life. Including Curt's decision to join the Red
Sox for the 2004 season.
"We would have loved to have come back
to be part of something special in Philadelphia," Schilling
told the ALS benefit crowd on Monday, many of whom were
Phillies faithful. "But it was meant for us to go to Boston.
And there were a lot bigger reasons than winning the World
Series. It brought exposure to ALS and the ALS families.
Beating the Yankees didn't hurt, either." No, it didn't.
One of the speakers at the ALS benefit read aloud a letter
that was received from a donor, who happened to own and
operate a bakery in Northern New Jersey. The donor, a self-described
Mets fan and Yankees Hater, had contributed $1,000 to ALS
when Schilling's Diamondbacks beat the Yankees in the World
Series in 2001. The same donor doubled the contribution
to $2,000 this year, noting the Sox's historic comeback
against the Yanks in the ALCS.
Schilling raised awareness of the ALS
cause by using a silver Sharpie to inscribe "K ALS" (translation:
Strike Out ALS) on the upper portion of his black Reebok
cleat during the Red Sox's post-season run. Sports Illustrated--in
its World Series issue--ran a two-page photo of Curt's
ankle, which showed the "K ALS" inscription just below the
now-infamous patch of blood on his white sock. Like many
people, I knew very little about ALS--also known as Lou
Gehrig's disease--when the 2004 baseball season started.
But just a few weeks into the young season, Curt Schilling
threw on one of our red and blue YankeesHater baseball caps
before dashing off to a Bruins playoff hockey game with
teammate Keith Foulke. Just another night at the rink for
Curt. Not so for us. Our tiny venture--which was started
on a lark as a way to needle some of our Yankee-loving friends--got
far more attention than we ever could have imagined. A spot
on ESPN SportCenter? Are you kidding?
Anyway, I began paying more attention
to Curt's baseball efforts in Boston. Then to his charitable
efforts. And, finally, to Shonda's charitable efforts. One
thing lead to another, and on Monday I found myself as part
of a crowd that had gathered to support the ALS Association.
As a baseball fan, part of the thrill of this event was
seeing this great pitcher in person. I'm now embarassed
to say that my focus on the ALS cause was initially overshadowed
by my interest as a fan. Call it ignorance, or whatever.
But enlightenment was just around the corner.
As a friend and I sat down to dinner
at a round table meant for about 10 diners, I was surrounded
by people who had intimate connections with ALS. Specifically,
they had family members who were lost to the disease. For
the uninitiated, ALS symptoms include the progressive wasting
and paralysis of the muscles. This can occur even as the
mind continues to be sharp as a tack. The average life expectancy
after an ALS diagnosis is 2 to 5 years. At one point in
the evening, a gentleman named Rick Lord addressed the crowd.
Rick is one of about 30,000 people in the U.S. who suffers
from ALS. He speech was initially difficult to follow, a
challenge borne from the disease. However, he later transitioned
over to a remarkable piece of voice technology, which generated
an easily-understandable flow of dialogue through the apparent
use of vocal chord vibrations.
Lord's words were eloquently constructed,
just as they must have been at the outset. But the uninitiated
needed to experience the evolution of Lord's speech delivery
to fully understand two integral points. The first point
is that advancements in improving the lives of ALS patients
have been--and will continue to be--made. Funding is the
key. The second point is how brutally unfair the disease
can be to people who otherwise retain strong mental faculties.
Much more unfair than waiting 86 years for a baseball championship.
And, yet, look how much energy has been expended this year
in New England in pursuit of that "cause".
By the end of the night, I finally had
a chance to meet Curt Schilling after all of these months.
It was a brief hand-shaking moment, as it should have been.
Honestly, he's anything but a 'Hater, and has said on many
occasions that he has immense respect for the Yankees. Which
is, of course, what makes the whole cap-wearing episode
somewhat nonsensical. But in what was a soulful night for
many, I wondered if there was a reason why he had worn our
cap that night in April. Then, I looked around the room
and realized that it was not a place I would have otherwise
been. Which made all the sense in the world.
TO MAKE A DONATION: Donations
to ALS or SHADE can be made on-line through the respective
websites:
ALS/Massachusetts Chapter: www.als-ma.org
Also available on this site are the popular "Why Not Us?"
t-shirts that Curt Schilling and his teammates sported during
the post-season.
ALS/Philadelphia Chapter: www.alsphiladelphia.org
SHADE: www.shadefoundation.org
BOSTON, MA – October 17, 2004
– Larry David is TV’s King of the Idiots. His writing breathed
life into Seinfeld’s George Constanza character.
He plays his idiotic self (or, we would hope, a caricature
of himself) on HBO’s Curb Your Enthusiasm. But when
it comes to the Red Sox—who have labeled themselves as major
league baseball’s “idiots”—David is likely to be overheard
saying, “No, No--I’m not with them.”
Even the most dim-witted creatures have
their limits, apparently.
David sat in a front-row seat just past
third base during Game Three of the ALCS at Fenway Park
on Saturday. His canary yellow baseball cap provided no
clue as to his allegiance in the contest. I was seated just
a dozen rows behind David, though the quality of his seat
was infinitely better than mine (my $125 ticket had a “walking
traffic” obstruction advisory stamped on it; I can only
imagine that his ticket said something like, “A view nearly
good enough for a hard-to-please, self-absorbed, Hollywood
prima donna, with moderate potential for exposure on the
national broadcast of this event.”). Not that there’s anything
wrong with accepting a ticket like that.
From my obstructed vantage point, I
could detect nary a cheer or jeer from David—which should
have been a tip-off as the game progressed. Ultimately,
he revealed his true colors when exiting the game early
after the seventh inning. As David walked up the aisle,
he was briefly stopped by a Yankees fan who asked: “Hey
Larry—Yankees fan or Red Sox fan?” David—with an awkward,
Curb Your Enthusiam-esque sort of delivery—quietly
replied, “Yankees.” The fan put out his closed fist, and
David half-heartedly responded in kind before continuing
his retreat.
It struck me as particularly unfitting
that David wound up looking like one of the most intelligent
people in the house on this night. He commits time to his
team, and receives ample rewards for doing so (World Series
championships, permission to parody George Steinbrenner
on Seinfeld, etc.). He doesn’t sleep over at the
ticket offices to gain admission to the big game; a quick
phone call does it. And he’s wise enough to beat the traffic
when the Yankees are up big after seven innings.
And then there were the Idiots. We root
to the last pitch in a lopsided game, even though the scoreboard
and 86 years of futility make that an admittedly-laughable
pursuit. We look for reasons why the losing continues and
then, after a bit of reflection, say things like, “Nomar
must have snuck into the game.” We invite people like 100-year-old
Rose DeChiara to the game to participate in first-pitch
ceremonies, and then examine her in awe while thinking,
“Wow, she’s actually seen the Sox win it all.” Of course,
none of this spirited behavior ever gets us anywhere. But
the chase along the way is what separates us from our hated
rival fan base in New York.
If things don’t work out for the Sox
this year (and this continues to be an “if” in the minds
of some Sox fans, as evidenced by the “SOX IN SEVEN!” chant
that was heard after Game Three), then we’ll show up again
next year, recharged and ready to tackle Year 87. We’ll
continue to throw Yankee HR balls back onto the field in
disgust, even if the throw must be executed from outside
the park on Lansdowne Street (as was the case with the throw-back
that occurred after Alex Rodriquez’s blast in the 3rd inning:
true story.) And we’ll continue to await the next great
Sox mantra, with the trash heap now holding old-time greats
like “Cowboy Up”, “Reverse the Curse” and “Why Not Us?”
Over the winter, somebody somewhere will scratch out a winner
on a scrap piece of paper while daydreaming about a warm
spring day at Fenway. And the rest of us will eat it up
like the cheese it usually is, happy to liberate a twenty
dollar bill in the process.
There was a point last night—about the
same time Larry David was making his exit—that I witnessed
something that gave me great hope for the future of this
fan base. Two shirtless college students were in the men’s
room, removing red paint from their faces while giving the
sinks a bloodbath appearance in the process. It was a setting
ripe for ridicule. But no one in the busy washroom uttered
a single critical word as the face-painters monopolized
the water sources. Instead, a “40-something” fan exhibited
both the support and wit that often go hand-in-hand in Boston:
“Guys, that was a great idea….four hours ago.”
Everyone in the area laughed. Idiots, you see, enjoy a light
moment amid a painful defeat. It’s been that way for years.
Even in the stands, the Yankees were
getting the better of it. With one out in the bottom of
the ninth, a gentle foul ball looked to land softly behind
the New York dugout. In terms of catch-ability, this ball
was the creampuff of the game. It landed amongst a circle
of Sox fans, which proceeded to bat it around a few times
before deflecting it into the hands of an opportunistic
Yankees fan who had raced onto the scene. Unbelievable.
When the final out was recorded, I took
one final look around the park. I found myself mesmerized
by the Prudential Building, which could be seen in the distance
past the right field wall. By careful selecting which lights
to turn off and which lights to keep on, the tenants successfully
spelled out “GO SOX” on the side of the building. It was
like the largest Lite Brite board you’ve ever seen.
I thought about the happy moments that must have preceded
that accomplishment: hundreds of giddy Sox fans pouring
over an official Prudential Building bulletin, complete
with a full schematic for executing the plan. Somewhere
in the building, I imagine that someone nearly dropped the
ball before being picked up by another Sox fan: “Dammit,
Kenny. Your card says “OFF”. Now go back and kill the lights
in your office before you screw the whole thing up.”
As I was leaving the park, I noticed
a voice mail message on my cell phone. It was my brother
John, who was somewhere in Fenway Park but not with me.
We had not crossed paths in Boston on this weekend, which
under ordinary circumstances would have been unthinkable.
But he failed to bring his cell phone with him, and due
to crowd noise I missed nearly all of the phone calls he
made from pay phones. John hadn’t an ounce of fight left
at game’s end, and he sounded quite like a beaten man on
his message: “I called to see if you guys wanted to go for
a drink,” he said, “but I am not even sure if I can stomach
one. I just can’t take this anymore. I’ll call you back
in a little while.”
That call never came. And so my girlfriend
and I walked back to the Sheraton, where we had parked our
car for the best-case sum of $10. It was a nice walk—about
a mile or so—and I felt for sure my cell would ring again
as we continued on. It didn’t. Just then, on the sidewalk
outside of the Sheraton, I saw a white, round piece of paper
on the ground. I knew the dimensions of this circular object
well. I picked it up and turned it over. Sure enough, it
was one of our YankeesHater stickers. John had spent the
hour prior to the game handing them out at Fenway, without
my help (every now and then, unadulterated girlfriend time
is a must). Eerie. On this night, I had not a clue where
my brother was. But suddenly, I felt connected. Like me,
he would be back for next season. And many more like it,
if need be. This is true because he’s a Red Sox fan. A passionate,
loyal and idiotic Red Sox fan. And smarter may he never
be.
Game One of the ALCS
GREAT BALLS OF IRE
BRONX, N.Y., October 12, 2004
– I have seen Hell. It’s far worse than anyone in Boston
could have imagined. Start doing good deeds, Red Sox Nation.
Get out there as fast as you can and make like a reformed
Ebeneezer Scrooge. This is not a place you want to be.
My journey started innocently enough.
The day before Game One of the ALCS, I was on the receiving
end of an unexpected sale offer: two $100 upper deck tickets
at the reasonably-marked-up price of $400. A check of my
brother’s availability preceded a quick acceptance of the
tickets. And with this, we were set up to converge upon
Yankee Stadium, home of the universe’s most evil team—he
from his upstate New York post and me from my northern New
Jersey location.
Like every other out-of-town soul, we
agreed to meet at the gigantic Louisville Slugger bat outside
of the park. Always a bad idea, and particularly so on this
night. The media crawled all over the place, looking for
“1918” sound bytes from the locals and “Reverse the Curse”
rally cries from the few Sox fans on hand. I was approached
by cameramen and reporters on two occasions (one crew from
New York and the other from New Hampshire) as I waited for
my tardy brother, for no other reason than I sported one
of our Yankee Hater caps.
Eventually, John sauntered in and we
made our way to the upper deck after properly arming ourselves
with beverages by Bass and Pilsner Urquell. It was a comfortably
crisp night, the type of evening that prompts the age-old
“sweatshirt versus jacket” discussion. It was apparent from
the start that we were marked men in our upper deck seats.
It started with a guy behind us, who was yapping on his
cell phone loud enough for us to hear. “These dudes in front
of us are wearing Yankees Hater caps” he said to a distant
listener. “Yo, can you believe that sh-t? In Yankee Stadium,
no less.”
Frankly, the cell-phone-guy’s discussion
didn’t faze us one bit. John, after all, drew a NESN reporter
and a full camera crew to his seat in the top row of the
upper deck at Yankees Stadium during Boston’s first trip
to New York this season. That live NESN interview spot,
which came just days after Curt Schilling created a mania
for our product by wearing the cap, remains as one of my
most fond memories in our business’s young history. John
can’t weigh but 140 pounds, and here he was among a sea
of navy & gray, telling the Sox fans back in Boston why
the Yankees so deserved the hate of a Nation.
While John may be brash, he’s not exactly
a good luck charm when it comes to games at Yankee Stadium.
The last time he was at a game in the Bronx, Jon Lieber
held a no-hitter through the 7th inning as the Yankees built
a 13-0 lead. Nonetheless, both of us were optimistic as
the game began. Curt Schilling was on the hill, and he had
been a difference-maker all season. Plus, he was our sentimental
favorite among the Sox pitching staff for obvious reasons.
The planets were properly aligned, we thought, for a Shut
Up Party of immense proportions. There’s a classic NFL Apparel
commercial where a bunch of Dolphin fans are watching a
football game in a bar when the opposing Jets score a touchdown.
The lone Jets fan jumps up and lets out an impeccably-timed
“whoop” after the grumbling Miami fans have fallen silent.
I’ve always wanted to be that Jets guy, and this was my
chance.
It didn’t happen, as Schilling and the
Sox fell behind 2-0 early. But then something occurred that
would appear to reverse the course of the game. At least
that’s the way it appeared at the time. “Did you see that,”
I asked John. “See what?” “Lofton just fouled a ball off
his foot, and it rolled back to Jeter in the on-deck circle,”
I explained. “Jeter went to toss it into the stands, and
came up short! See, the ball-boy is running over to pick
it up. Jeter doesn’t have it tonight. I see a key error
coming. Dude, up top.” “Another beer?” John asked, passing
on the high five.
As it turns out, John’s instincts were
correct. The Jeter short toss wasn’t a sign, but the repetitious
pops from Jorge Posada’s glove—which could be heard from
the upper deck—were a harbinger. A glove doesn’t pop on
velocity alone. The ball needs to hit the leather flush,
and this occurs with greater frequency when the catcher
is barely moving his target. Mussina had it on this night,
while the usually impenetrable Schilling—ailing from a damaged
ankle—did not. Before long, the Sox were down 6-0. One of
the Yankees fans rolled out a hand-painted “CURT SHELLING”
banner and let it fly from the upper deck. Had Schilling
looked up as he left the mound for a reliever, he couldn’t
have helped but see it.
Just a short time later, the Yankees
fans broke out their new favorite chant: “Who’s your Dad-deee
{clap, clap, clapclapclap}.” Sure, this was really a chant
more fitting for Pedro Martinez’s start on the following
night. But the broader application of this jab to the Red
Sox (and its fans) in general was orchestrated earlier in
the week by MLB Properties, which approved the release of
a t-shirt that read: “Hey Red Sox Fans: Who’s Your Daddy?”
The shirt was adorned with a Yankees logo as well as a pacifier
bearing the Red Sox’s classic “B” logo. MLB Properties pulled
the shirt roughly 24 hours after its release, after a statistically-insignificant
number of thin-skinned Sox fans objected with the help of
BostonDirtDogs.com. Fortunately, most of Red Sox Nation
has more grit than was shown in this case. Running to the
teacher just isn’t our way, is it?
Of course it isn’t. Which is why John
and I remained in the Death Star’s upper tier as the Yankees
lead expanded to 8-0. At that point, Mussina was pitching
a flawless game. It was not difficult to find an adjective
for the atmosphere at that moment. In a word: Hell. By the
seventh inning, many of the New York fans were thinking
“it”, but would not say “it” for fear of jinxing Mussina.
John and I figured out why they were talking in code; it
was like the times at the craps tables in Vegas when everyone
abstained from saying “seven” during a hot roll of the dice.
Instantly, we both knew what the situation demanded.
“Hey, he’s got a perfect game going,
doesn’t he?,” I exclaimed, as the Yankee drones around me
looked over in shock and disgust. I shot a glance over to
my brother—who happened to have a few of our round YankeesHater
decals on him—and nodded. Then, I left him to put an exclamation
point on the only pleasing experience of the game to that
point: “Tag it!” I said emphatically. With that, he slapped
one of the decals on his seat for good luck. Not as crazy
a move as you might expect: the first time we ever gave
those decals out at Fenway Park, that day’s game featured
the infamous A-Rod face sandwich a la Varitek, as well as
Bill Mueller’s walk-off HR against Mariano Rivera.
That’s all it took. Mark Bellhorn—who
always seems to be walking in one direction or another
after an at-bat—cracked a ball into the gap and was off
to the races, eventually stopping at second base. Suddenly,
Mussina’s no-no was a no-go. Good times. What followed is
somewhat of a blur. I can say this: by the time Metallica’s
“Enter Sandman” was playing and the same Rivera was walking
to the mound with two outs in the eight inning, the Sox
had cut the deficit to 8-7. And Sox slugger David Ortiz,
who narrowly missed both a home run and a long fly out just
moments before when the ball he hit careened off Hideki
Matsui’s glove and into the outfield wall—was standing on
third base.
This time, however, Rivera was Rivera.
It didn’t matter that he had flown in from Panama hours
earlier after attending a funeral for two his wife’s relatives
who had tragically perished at his home. It didn’t matter
that the Yankees were in the depths of a colossal choke,
and about to blow a game that might forever make the list
of Red Sox fan favorites. And it didn’t matter than there
was a round YH decal on my brother’s seat. This time, no
matter much we wished otherwise, Hell was inescapable.
The game ultimately ended in a most
severe way: with a double play that started with a ground
ball fielded by Rivera. We were left to wonder if it would
have better if the Sox had simply never bothered to rally.
This game was pure torment, except for that brief period
of time when the score was 8-7 and the Yankee fans became
edgy and silent. As one of my friends—a Yankees fan—said
smugly afterwards: “This game reminded me of the division
race. New York builds a big lead. The Sox rally to get close,
but fall short when it really matters.” I almost told him
to go to Hell. But I was in no mood to let him in.
The BOSTON HAIR FORCE
October 10, 2004 – For many Yankee
fans, serving up a syncopated “1918” or making a reference
to “The Curse” is the same thing as being clever. Are you
a Yankee fan who needs to save face while engaged in a heated
debate with a Red Sox fan? Simply make a selection off the
tiresome List of Two. And then look for a nearby
Yankee fan to giggle with.
Lately, however, some of the truly-gifted
Yankee fans have dared to venture into new territory: the
state of hair among the Red Sox players. There are more
than a few targets in this case, such as Johnny Damon (“he
looks like Jesus”), Pedro Martinez (“he looks like a chick”),
Kevin Millar (“he looks like Abe Lincoln”) and Manny Ramirez
(“he looks like Buckwheat”). So far, none of the Yankee
fans I’ve encountered have been able to identify a look-alike
subject for Bronson Arroyo. They mention the cornrows, try
to think of something brilliant to say, fail, and then stand
there with a constipated look on their face. You can almost
see their cranial processors running through the List
of Two in a loop, only to be hit with “no matches found”
over and over again.
History tells us that hairstyles serve
an important social purpose: they indicate status. In medieval
Europe, maidens wore flowing hair while matrons bound theirs
under veils. These days, the term “maiden” is used more
often to describe the winless nag in the fourth race at
Belmont Park than to describe a woman who has never had
her day at the altar. As much as it hurts to say it, the
Red Sox have been maidens for 86 years. So could there really
be some meaning behind all this hair growth in the Boston
clubhouse? Similarly, are the Yankees—all of whom are content
to tuck a neat, homogenized cut of hair beneath a navy and
white veil—the matrons of the major leagues?
These are not simple questions. If you
look down the Boston bench, the issue gets confused with
guys like Curt Schilling (a cleancut “matron” appearance,
along with a “matron” track record) and Mike Timlin (ditto).
Right now, it’s probably the Cy Young candidate that New
York fears the most. As USA Today columnist Ian O’Connor
wrote last week: “Steinbrenner has to live with a pitching
staff that desperately needs a Schilling-like anchor, just
like he has to live with the photo of Schilling wearing
one of those Yankee Hater caps during Game 7 of the Bruins/Canadiens
series.” Simply put, Schilling is the matron that got away
from Big George. This is a big deal in New York, where the
general attitude in the Steinbrenner era has been: “You
can win them all.”
So the Yankees—though mostly surrounded
by the wild coifs of the Boston Hair Force—will have to
stare down one of their own in Game One and perhaps in games
four and seven as well. Vegas likes Schilling’s chances,
having already notched him as a +130 favorite in Yankee
Stadium against New York’s Mike Mussina (for the uninitiated,
+130 means that you would have to wager $130 to win $100,
a return that is less than an even-money coin flip). The
Boston fans like his chances, too: most of Red Sox Nation
coveted another Red Sox/Yankees series, presumably because
such a series looks quite winnable this year. And “Schilling”
is the most popular answer to the question: “Why will the
result be any different this year?”
But let’s not forget the maidens. Having
been to Saratoga Race Course a few times in my day, I can
vouch for the ability of perennial also-rans to hit the
finish line first on any given day. Nonetheless, when a
horse enters a race with a lifetime record of 0-for-15 or
worse, the standing rule among bettors is to let that horse
beat them. As Mario Puzo—author of the Godfather—once
wrote in one of his less-famous works, “Whatever you do
you in life, let percentage be your God.” But who do the
percentages favor in the upcoming Sox/Yanks series? Do they
favor “The Curse”, which would be the side taken by the
broken-record Yankees fans? Or do they favor the odds set
by the Vegas sports-books, which are responsible for the
exchange of millions of dollars and the possible livelihoods
of thousands of casino managers?
It’s probably safe to say that the sports-books’
scrutiny is more reliable than an opinion derived from the
List of Two. So, as the field of maidens (plus a
few purebred matrons) gets set to run down the stretch with
the oft-victorious thoroughbreds from the Bronx, we hope
that there’s a race-caller out there who is prepared to
say that the maidens have won by a hair.
GET YOUR OWN RIVALRY
OCT. 7, 2004: I have a friend
who also happens to be a Twins fan. Predictably, he hates
the Yankees. It's the sort of trait that usually makes bonding
easy. But not at the moment.
When the Yankees dusted off a familiar
script and stunned Minnesota with a classic comeback on
Wednesday night, normality quickly returned to the baseball
universe. Frankly, it was odd to see the Yankees at the
brink of an 0-2 start in a five game series. The Yankees
players looked like sure losers, and the network scrambled
to fix the camera on the New York dugout, as if to say,
"So much star power and wealth, but failures nonetheless."
It was odd to see the Yankees fans sitting there motionless
and silent. It was as if the stadium was hosting a film
screening, and the crowd was not finding the original ending
palatable. Then, with a quick snip of the editing scissors,
the "dark" ending fell to the floor it was quickly replaced
with a feel-good conclusion.
My Twins-loving friend was understandably
dismayed by the sudden twist in Game Two, but said all of
the things that a fan is supposed to say: it's not over
yet; Santana will get another start; the Yankees got outplayed
but were simply luckier. I should have been supportive.
Instead, I was short. I told him the Twins were done, and
that I was actually okay with that result. He gave me a
look that begged for an explanation. After all, I am one
of the biggest Yankees haters he knows.
"I don't want you shearing my lamb,
you know what I mean?", I said. And I meant it. Nothing
personal against the Twins or their fans, but it's time
for Minnesota to get out of the way. Ditto for Anaheim.
Since the beginning of the season, it has been about two
teams: the Red Sox and the Yankees. It won't always be this
way, as the ebb and flow of success and failure will test
the continued strength of this rivalry over time. But this
year, things are supposed to happen a certain way. If the
Sox and Yanks don't meet in this post-season, it will be
the single biggest letdown in sports history.
Michael Kaye, the Yankees TV announcer
and the star of the "Michael Kaye (radio) Show", asked hometown
listeners (e.g., Yankees fans)an interesting question during
Wednesday's broadcast: If you knew ahead of time that Boston
would prevail in a Boston/New York playoff series, would
you prefer that the Yanks were instead ousted by the Twins
in the ALDS? Kaye's answer was a resounding "yes." He said
that a Boston victory over New York would be too painful,
and that it was something to avoid at all costs. The question
for Boston fans would be a bit different: If you knew that
Boston would defeat Anaheim in the ALDS, would you rather
face New York or Minnesota? That's an easy one, in my book.
In a perfect world, the Red Sox win the World Series and
they do it by going through New York. And then next year,
it starts all over again.
Experiencing happiness in lock-step
with Yankees fans is harder than finding heart in Oakland.
In fact, it cannot be done. So, it's not accurate to say
that some Sox fans are rooting for the Yankees. It's simply
better to say that we're anxious for the Yankees to throw
themselves in the path of the Red Sox. From there--after
all these fruitless years--we're still willing to take our
chances.
HORNS AND TAILS
Blessing in Disguise: Last year,
the Twins complained about Ronan Tynan's long renditions
of "God Bless America" following the seventh inning of playoff
games at Yankee Stadium. No noise from the Twins on that
topic this year, but there should be.
The delay caused by the production can
amount to 20 minutes or more, which is an unreasonable interruption
in the progression of a game. In Game One, the Twins' ace
Johan Santana went into a temporary funk after this planned
delay on the part of the Yankees, throwing several uncharacteristically-poor
pitches (he bounced one, and then almost threw one over
his catcher's head) before giving up a near HR to Ruben
Sierra.
"God Bless America" is a great song,
too great to be used as an "ice" tactic in a sporting event.
If it's crucial to the Yankee Stadium experience, let's
hear it at the start or the conclusion of the game. Alternatively,
let's have the Fenway Park crew wheel out replicas of the
Dartmouth, the Eleanor, and the Beaver
and reenact the Boston Tea Party anytime it appears the
Yankees are gathering momentum. No, wait. That would be
ludicrous, wouldn't it?
FENWAY PARK SOUTH
BALTIMORE, OCT. 3, 2004: Over
the weekend, Camden Yards was as red as the Prom scene in
Stephen King's Carrie. Sure, the signs said "Orioles
Park at Camden Yards". But for three days (Friday through
Sunday), this was definitely Red Sox territory.
The temporary migration of the Sox fan
base led to some interesting occurrences. For example, one
of the Orioles program sellers turned a blind eye to the
hometown fans and targeted the invaders instead: "C'mon,
Boston. Get your programs! You'll want 'em after you win
the World Series!" The gentle hometown fans did not seem
to mind the sleight one bit. Here, the main character continues
to be the venue, with its old-style decor and its state-of-the-art
amenities. There's a baseball team that shows up and plays
here for six months out of the year. But similar to the
cornfield players in the Field of Dreams, most people
in the area don't see them. Or, at least, they don't see
their team in the way that fans in Boston and New York see
their teams.
We first encountered this phenomena
during the Yankees' first trip to Camden Yards earlier this
season. We were in town to promote the Baltimore Version
of our YankeesHater caps, and were looking to give
away dozens of freebies outside of Camden Yards. You couldn't
have swung a greasy tank top without hitting a Yankees fan,
but Orioles fans were difficult to find in numbers. The
Yankees' fans took over Baltimore on this day, much like
the Red Sox fans did on the closing weekend of the regular
season. How could the locals let this happen? It doesn't
happen in New York (though Boston fans do make every attempt
to infiltrate the spacious Death Star), and it damn sure
doesn't happen in Boston.
Orioles owner Peter Angelos complained
that the Expos' move to Washington, DC will hurt attendance
figures at Camden Yards. This is not the heart of the problem
in Baltimore. The problem is the heart of Baltimore in supporting
its team. Resuscitating the legacy of the Orioles requires
the fans' torrid--and sometimes irrational--passion for
the team (Note: Sox fans have been rooting wildly since
1918 without a taste of the proverbial carrot) and perhaps
a few players capable of capturing the imagination of the
local fan base. Cal Ripken served in the ambassador role
for years. But he is now serving up goodwill 25 miles north
of Baltimore in Aberdeen, MD, where he plays an active role
in youth baseball and the Ironbirds of the NY-Penn League.
He's even building replicas of Camden Yards, Fenway Park
and Wrigley Field, using little league dimensions. But at
the moment, one of those stadiums doesn't belong.
The Orioles have a rich history, but
you can only fly that bird so far. Yet, leaning on the past
continues to be the play at Camden Yards. Buy a Boog Powell
autograph on Eutaw Street, and he'll throw in a barbecue
sandwich for free. Stop by the Fan Appreciation Table for
a free souvenir, and your choices will include a bobblehead
doll of the long-departed Jeff Conine (true story). If a
surplus bobblehead scenario had unfolded in Boston, they
would have reduced the dolls to paste by hand and overnighted
the by-product to Chicago with a note saying, "He's your
problem now, suckers!"
Here's how bad it got for the Orioles
this weekend: manager Lee Mazzilli sent starting pitcher
Sidney Ponson out to the mound for the seventh inning of
Saturday's game so that Ponson could boomerang back to the
dugout while enjoying an ovation from the fans after his
final appearance of the year. He got nothing. That's because
the Sea of Red in the stands was having too much fun chanting
"Let's go, Red Sox! [clap, clap. clapclapclap]" to pay any
attention. I think that Boog may have acknowledged Ponson's
departure with a smoke signal from his barbecue pit, but
I can't be sure because my view was partially obscured by
the guy wearing the "Posada is a Little Bitch" t-shirt.
It's not a nice t-shirt, to be sure. But it's very Boston.
And on this weekend, creating a home away from home was
precisely the point.
HORNS & TAILS
“Did you bet on baseball”: With
that teaser, you're probably expecting a Pete Rose rant.
But not so. Betting on baseball is both legal and encouraged
in Las Vegas, and some enterprising Sox fans were recently
able to grab a few bucks at the Yankees' expense on a bet
that was just finalized over the weekend. Back in March,
the sports book in the Paris Casino & Hotel in Las
Vegas offered patrons the chance to bet on the regular season
series between the Sox and Yanks (e.g., which team will
win the majority of the head-to-head games this season?).
The bet seemed like a lock when the Sox won six of the first
seven match-ups against the Yankees this season. But a Sox
slide—which included a Yanks sweep of the Sox in a three-game
series in New York—turned the bet into a nail-biter. The
Sox needed just one win in three games against the Yanks
this past weekend for the bet to pay off for Sox fans. That
win came on Saturday. When the Sox won again on Sunday,
their record against the Yankees this year increased to
11-8. This marked the first time since 1999 that the Sox
have beaten the Yankees in the regular season series. Those
who wagered on the Sox received $110 for each $100 wagered.
A good bet? Oui, Oui.
More bets: On a related note,
most of the sports book in Las Vegas posted 2-1 or 5-2 odds
on the Red Sox to win the World Series (before the season
started). One sports book—at the Aladdin—posted 5-1
odds on the Sox, which is the highest odds that we are aware
of. The Yankees—in virtually every sports book in Vegas—were
installed as modest favorites to win it all at odds typically
ranging from 8-5 to 5-2.
Hate of a Preacher Man: In the
“just when you think you've heard it all” department, we
offer up the follow message, which we received this past
Saturday in connection with a web order of one of our red
“YH w/ Horns” caps: “As an Episcopal priest in Washington,
DC, I can truly say that the Yankees are Satan's spawn.
I know these things. Bless you for all your work.” Hallelujah.
“Luke, I am your Father—ah, I mean
your Daddy”: Pedro Martinez offered up some meaty quotes
for the media on Friday, after losing to the Yankees yet
again: “What can I say? I just tip my hat and call the Yankees
my daddy. I can't find a way to beat them at this point.
You just have to give them credit and say, 'Hey you guys
beat me, not my team'. I wish they would (%&$#@) disappear
and never come back”. Several members of the media made
a big deal about this, saying the Yankees are now in Pedro's
head and that he has lost his confidence. Others maintained
that Pedro was the one playing head games by pumping up
the Yankees' confidence. I like the odds on the latter.
Anyone have the number for the sports book at the Aladdin?
Yankee fan reviews our website:
Here's an email that ticked into our inbox on Sunday evening:
“Wow. I just happened to stumble onto this site. You Yankees
haters never get it, do you? You guys are very jealous people;
it makes me sick. You guys talk about the Yankees as an
evil empire because everyone else doesn't know how to win.
It's all about the greatest franchise. Everyone who puts
on pinstripes wins, from Babe Ruth to Paul O'Neill. Even
Aaron Boone smacked the hate fire outta you guys. There
is nothing wrong with a team that has the capital to do
everything in their power to win consistently. We are the
winningest team in the history of sports and nobody even
comes close in the amount of championships. Even if some
other team wins, it is still gonna be a long time before
someone takes over the Bronx Bombers. Being that I live
in the Bronx, I love going to the games and crushing the
Yankees haters' dreams all the time. You guys started hating
us first, so we reply by destroying you haters. Talk smack
when you guys can back it up. Yo haters, don't hate the
players, hate the game…and the fact that you s--k! --V.C.
Griffin, Bronx, N.Y. (Our response: “Congratulations. You
are the 100th consecutive Yankee fan to write in and mention
the fact that “your team” is the winningest team ever. We
often wonder if all you guys wake up in the morning and
take a Stuart Smalley moment: 'I'm smart enough, I'm good
enough, and—gosh darnit—people like me'. Hugs & Kisses,
Rebel Forces, LLC”
Steinbrenner watch: Big George
takes a shot at himself in a new VISA check card commercial.
The commercial starts with Joe Torre looking concerned as
he talks to a trainer about the arm ailments of one of his
stars (who is not initially visible in the scene). As the
camera pulls back, we see that the “star” in question is
none other than George himself, who has strained his arm
by writing payroll checks. Notwithstanding the name and
tenor of our site, we have to admit that we are somewhat
fascinated by this guy, who remains a very good sport while
continually dodging arrows. Damn. Did I really just write
that?
Boutique Bonanza: Over the weekend,
checking out the apparel worn by fans at Fenway Park was
almost as entertaining as the action itself. Several boutique
makers of apparel—such as bornintoit.com, theredseat.com
and screwthecurseteeshirts.com—have collectively
created an eclectic collection of merchandise for the fan
looking for something a little less mainstream. Our personal
favorites include the “Damon is my Homeboy” t-shirt (a play
off the “Jesus is my Homeboy” apparel made famous by actor
Ashton Kutcher and some other Hollywood types) created by
Yankee-Hater.com and the “Battling the Evil Empire” t-shirt
created by TheRedSeat.com. Not all of the items created
by the boutique makers will survive the scrutiny of MLB
Properties, which is charged with the responsibility of
protecting the intellectual property (e.g., trademarks,
etc.) of all of the teams. However, a fair number of the
better items appear to navigate the legal waters appropriately.
With small or non-existent advertising
budgets, these small companies often try to land merchandise
in the hands of athletes or celebrities, with the hope that
a magical Kodak moment will develop. Two companies—Yankee-Hater.com
and Screwthecurseteeshirts.com—experienced such moments
when actor and mega-Sox fan Ben Affleck was photographed
in their apparel. Affleck was photographed by the Boston
Herald while wearing a “Killin' with Schillin'” shirt made
by Yankee-Hater.com. A photo of an apple-eating Affleck
appeared in People Magazine, as he wore the “Screw
the Curse” t-shirt by screwthecurseteeshirts.com. Manny
Ramirez was photographed in the same “Screw the Curse” t-shirt,
earning the small company an A+ in the public relations
department. Frankly, we're a bit envious of the Affleck
coup, as we sent caps to his agent twice and really enjoyed
the way this “hater” heckled the Yankees at Fenway Park
in July. But our short list of celebrity cap wearers includes
two of Boston's biggest baseball stars, and perhaps the
best known author in the country. So, we have no complaints.
MONSTER FLICK
SEPTEMBER 7, 2004 – The Farrelly Brothers
have been at the helm of the S.S. Crackpot for years,
building a string of successful comedies around characters
that no one else seemed to want. But one would have to seriously
second-guess the venue they have selected for their next
Hollywood happy ending: Fenway Park.
Everyone in Boston knows how long it's
been since the Red Sox last won a championship. And there
are plenty of Yankees fans eager to enlighten everyone else.
Nonetheless, the Farrelly's brought a film crew and the
co-stars of their current production, Fever Pitch,
to Fenway Park over the weekend. The film will reportedly
depict the relationship between a Sox-obsessed baseball
fan (played by Jimmy Fallon, the former SNL comic) and his
girlfriend (played by Drew Barrymore). Imagine that.
On Saturday, Fenway Park delivered the
goods for the Farrelly Brothers, who in the past have placed
mentally-challenged sidekicks, Siamese twins and an Amish
bowler in the center of their comedies. Boston's real-life
game against the Rangers provided a setting that could have
been dropped into the movie's script verbatim: a Red Sox
rally falls just short following a controversial, game-ending
double play. But those who attended Saturday's game—like
I did—know that there was something different about this
loss. In short, it was satisfying. Time to say more.
The fans settled into their seats for
the 1:20 p.m. start, drenched in a hot sun that would persist
for most of the afternoon. The wind occasionally blew, but
not frequently or strong enough to add sufficient dance
to the knuckleballs of Red Sox pitcher Tim Wakefield. And
so it was that the Sox found themselves in the seventh inning
of the game, facing an 8-1 deficit. Yet, the mood in the
stadium was not dark: most of the fans left one eye on the
Green Monster scoreboard. It was there that the status of
the Yankees' game against Baltimore was updated using the
same method that has been used for decades: with the time-honored
practice of shuffling number placards as the score and inning
changes. The Yankees had fallen behind 1-0 early, and then
2-0. But for the next hour or so, only the inning placard
changed.
The Sox fans booed Rangers second baseman
Alfonso Soriano all day, based on the fact that he used
to wear pinstripes. So the crowd's reaction was hardly a
surprise when Rangers reliever Jeff Nelson entered the game
in the bottom of the sixth inning. In last year's playoffs,
Nelson—then a Yankee—blew off some steam by slugging a member
of Fenway Park's grounds crew. He later spent weeks of life
untangling the mess, which proves that the optimal surface
at which to direct a punch is somewhere between human flesh
and a clubhouse wall. At any rate, the villainous reliever
(who had escaped the sixth inning without allowing any scoring)
eventually buckled to the chants of "NELLL---SON….NELLL-----SON…"
in the seventh inning. After a trifecta of walks, Nelson
looked around the infield to see Red Sox sprouting from
every base. Then, a little Hollywood drama rifled into the
scene: the ninth-inning score of the Yankees game was changed
on the Monster scoreboard from 2-0 to 7-0 (yeah, we know
there's no such thing as a 5-run HR, but these days it's
not easy keeping up with the scoring of the Yankees' opponents
if you have to do it with placards). The crowd went beserk.
The Texas manager had seen enough: he promptly rescued the
former Yankee from the wrath of the Boston crowd.
The '80's pop hit "Who Can It Be Now?"—by
the vegemite-eating band Men at Work!—played over
the PA system as Nelson's successor left the bullpen for
the diamond. The answer, in this case, was Ron Mahay. Usually,
Hollywood would change the weather from "gloomy & overcast"
to "gloriously sunny" before a dramatic plot shift. But
in bizarre, Farrelly-like fashion, just the opposite happened
as Mahay completed his warm-ups: a pleasant bit of shade
fell over the field. That was all it took. Sox second baseman
Mark Bellhorn sent a low pitch from Mahay over the same
Green Monster that had yielded such wonderful information
just moments before, with the ball touching down to the
right of the "Three Bottles of Coke on the Wall.". What
baseball script could be complete without a grand slam like
this? Mahay managed to retire the ever-dangerous Manny Ramirez
before David Ortiz hit a solo HR to right field. With the
deficit cut to 8-6, and the Yankees' loss already in the
bank, it looked like there might be a little Hollywood ending
after all (I could not have been the only one to notice
that even the Sox' third-base ballgirl was on her game,
making a sick, back-handed grab to rob the Rangers'
Rod Barajas of a foul ball that would have otherwise skipped
cleanly into the stands).
The game remained on the 8-6 score through
the bottom of the ninth, when "I Need a Hero" was blasted
over the PA as Red Sox highlights graced the Diamond Vision
(that Trot Nixon HR against the A's last year never gets
tiresome). Doug Mientkiewicz apparently was not inspired
by this multi-media tour de force, as he struck out to register
the first out of the inning. Dave Roberts, however, sent
a dribbling ground ball through the Texas infield to send
the tying run to the plate. As Bellhorn strode towards the
batter's box, hundreds of possible outcomes whizzed through
my head. Not one of them had the game ending in a
Sox loss. Boston was going to find a way to win this game.
Period.
It didn't happen. Bellhorn tapped a
grounder to Soriano, who made a "close enough" phantom tag
on Dave Roberts and then threw to first to complete the
double play. The crowd went silent immediately, not getting
what they wanted. But in what a psychiatrist might refer
to as a "breakthrough moment", the mood quickly elevated
as the crowd shuffled out of the stadium. Looking back,
it was clear that the fans and the players had expected
the Sox to come back and win the game. And this was as gigantic
(and uplifting) a takeaway as can be had in a Boston loss.
HORNS AND TAILS
New York Headlines: Kevin Brown's
self-inflicted hand injury was predictably the subject of
the NY tabloid headlines over the weekend. On Sunday, the
New York Daily News opted for the back-page headline
of "PINHEAD!" while the New York Post opted for "PUNCH
DRUNK." The Yankees are reportedly looking into the possibility
of voiding Brown's contract next year, on the grounds that
the injury resulted from an act that is prohibited under
his contract (e.g., inflicting harm upon oneself).
Let's Talk About the Weather:
Early reports indicated that the Yankees planned to seek
a forfeit if the Tampa Bay Devil Rays were unable to arrive
at Yankee Stadium on Monday in time for the first game of
the scheduled doubleheader. We know things are going bad
in the Bronx right now, but it's a whole lot better to be
2 ½ games in first place in weather-secure New York than
an also-ran in Hurricane-ravaged Florida. Some perspective
would be nice.
Speaking of the weather…": Is
it just me, or do others find these on-location Hurricane
reports hilarious in a "boy, is that journalist insanely
stupid" sort of way? Over the weekend, dozens of weather
reporters played a classic game of chicken, with points
seemingly awarded for: (1) sputtering a few unintelligible
words through a blanket of driving rain; (2) being lifted
off of one's feet momentarily, followed by the mandatory
"whoa, it's really nasty out here!"; and (3) achieving a
facial skin warp. There's gotta be a Saturday Night Light
skit coming.
Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Neighbor's
Ace:On Sunday, the New York Post ran a piece
titled, "George's Shopping List" which identified the free
agents that will be most coveted by the Yankees in the off-season.
At the top of the list: Pedro Martinez. The piece described
the pros and cons of acquiring Martinez. Excerpt of the
"cons": "An enemy of the Yankees clubhouse, specifically
catcher Jorge Posada. But the Yanks learned to love Roger
Clemens. Expects to be treated differently, which is not
the Joe Torre way. Fragile."
Mailbag (a Yankee fan's response
to the Poison Pen column titled "Blue Moon Rising"):
"I just had the pleasure of reading your latest column.
There's just one thing you forget to acknowledge: IT"S THE
BOSTON RED SOX! I don't care of the Yanks are up 20 ½ games
or 3 ½ games on September 2nd. As Jeff Goldblum said in
the epic Jurassic Park, "Nature finds a way." The Red Sox
will find a way to blow it, they always do. Of course the
Red Sox are closing the gap on the Yankees. Of course they
are representing themselves as a legitimate threat to the
Bronx Bombers. If they finished 10 games out of the division
and didn't even make the playoffs, that wouldn't be torture.
Red Sox Nation couldn't bitch about how they were cursed
or jinxed if they lost by a wide margin. I can't believe
that all the Red Sox fans don't recognize what is happening.
I want to scream "They're just going to break your heart
again!" at the top of my lungs in the middle of Boston.
I'd be doing the city a public service, I really would.
Let's not forget that this is a franchise that just traded
a future hall-of-fame shortstop for two guys hitting .240.
The reason Yankees fans appear to be in such a foul mood
is simply because you're wasting their time. And so are
the Sox." – Rob Carlson, Basking Ridge, NJ. (Editor's
note: What nature can't find, BALCO can).
BLUE MOON RISING
AUGUST 1, 2004 – There are two types
of Red Sox fans: those that live in Boston, and those that
don't. The richest fan experience is consistently enjoyed
by the hometown faithful. These are the lucky souls who
can pop over to Yawkey Way after work and bask in the camaraderie
of a sold-out crowd while happily overpaying for a few mustard-dressed
Fenway Franks and a couple of wet—if not cold—beers. Every
night, the glowing CITGO sign looms majestically over the
horizon of the Green Monster, creating the park's own version
of a sunset photo op.
By the next morning, the nirvana state
continues: heavy Sox coverage on the sports pages, on the
radio waves, and on the tube. A brush with a Sox player
is also a possibility—if you're into that sort of thing--and
the odds increase if you happen to wonder into Lucky
Jeans on Newberry Street (one of the players' wives—with
the player in tow—is said to be a frequent visitor), Champions
Sports Bar in the Copley Place Marriott (think power
hitters) or Fenway Sports World (the souvenir shop
a block from the stadium that sold the large Pedro bobblehead
to a Sox player just before the All-Star break).
Usually, Boston provides a fan experience
that can't be beat. In fact, the next best thing would be
at least 10 ½ games back (figuratively speaking). But for
those of us who live in the New York City metropolitan area,
there's a blue moon moment occurring right now. Finally,
we have something to be coveted by our Boston-based brethren.
It's time to explain.
It seems that the average Yankee fan—and
the New York media that tells them how to think—doesn't
much like a dogfight. And it's showing in the form of foul
mood swings, whining and a general epidemic of panic. As
Flounder once said in Animal House, "Boy, Is this Great!"
All of a sudden, listening to the show put on by Yankees
sycophant Michael Kaye is a great pleasure. There's a new
tone in Michael Kaye's voice these days. I seem to remember
Kevin Costner using the same one to explain Waterworld.
The back cover of Tuesday's New York
Post featured a caricature of Alfred E. Neumann (of
Mad Magazine fame) wearing a Yankees cap adjacent
to a bold headline that read, "WHAT, US WORRY?" A smaller
headline further teased the cover story: "Call 'em mad,
but Yankees don't fear surging Red Sox." Inside the Post,
readers were treated to predictable Yankee quotes (Alex
Rodriguez: "This game is about runs and they are on their
best run of the year. We can't worry about them. We have
to worry about us.") as well as a warming, day-by-day diary
of the Yankees' waning lead since August 15. This provided
yet another déjà vu vibe. Pitcher Sparky Lyle—with the help
of writer Peter Golenbock—used the same literary technique
25 years ago to chronicle the Yankees' triumphant 1978 season
in his book titled "The Bronx Zoo." That was the year that
the Yankees trailed Boston by 14 games in June before rallying
and then earning the division title in the "Bucky Dent"
game in Boston. After all these years, that still smarts.
Then, I remember that Stephen King—Master of the Twisted
and fellow Sox fan—has been chronicling Boston's season.
I get another Flounder flashback, and a rush that feels
as good as the middling section of a sneeze.
The backcover of Tuesday's Daily
News featured a simple, yet frantic headline: "Let's
Go!" Read this NYC tabloid, and you'll encounter a similar
diary of the Yankees' current slide. Like a good rerun (the
Cheers episode when Cliff appears on Jeopardy comes
to mind), this experience is just as rich the second time
around. The News also features a column by Mike Lupica,
in which Lupica attributes the Sox's turnaround to the July
24 wake-up call sent by catcher Jason Varitek. What surprises
me most about this column is that Lupica—five weeks after
the well-publicized scrape between Varitek and Rodriguez--seems
to be convinced that he's taking an original angle here.
If Lupica had instead attributed the Sox's flourish to Gabe
Kapler's takedown of Tanyon Sturtze, I'd be applauding him
with hands and feet. At the same time.
As if all of this was not enough, there
was another joyful moment left in the day. It came during
a brief writing break, when a check of the early scores
revealed the following:
Red Sox 6, Angels 0 (5th)
Indians 12, Yankees 0 (6th)
But it got better. The Sox hung on for
the win, while the Yanks reached the depths of futility
in a record-breaking 22-0 loss. Is anyone in the Bronx worried
or fearful now?
Tomorrow will be a sweet day. It is
a day on which I will wash myself in all that the NYC media
has to say. It is also a day on which I can express my sentiments
to the walking Yankee dead with a simple number. And I have
two choices: 3 ½; or 22. I expect to hear numbers in return.
But I'll enjoy every "1918" that's dealt to me. That's how
you know you're getting to them. And in the NYC area, there
are lots of "them".
You just can't get that in Boston.
HATER NOTES – Haters redeemed
in Hawaii – On Tuesday the Attorney General for Hawaii—Mark
Bennett--reportedly took advantage of his brief position
in power (gained when Hawaii's governor and lieutenant governor
left the state to attend the Republican National Convention
in NYC) by declaring August 1, 2004 as "New York Yankees
Day" in Hawaii. Since we've sold a few Yankeeshater caps
in Hawaii, we have to question whether or not Bennett was
truly representing his constituency with this odd proclamation.
It's only fitting that Yankees faithful should have to enjoy
this "special" day following the Yankees' worst loss ever.
Advantage: Haters.
(This column was written by Michael
Moorby, the CEO of Rebel Forces, LLC, who typically confines
his writing to business-related topics but cannot always
restrain the frustrated sportswriter within).
MY FAIR SHARE
By Fenway (a dog) August 17, 2004 – There I was, asleep
on the cool ceramic tile of the kitchen floor. It's my favorite
place to snooze during a heat wave. But in this case, the
nap was short-lived. I was abruptly awoken by the sensation
of something being pulled over my brow. Luckily, my ears
stopped that "something" from totally enveloping my head.
Then, I heard my name being called: "Look, Fenway, look!".
A baseball quickly rolled into the vicinity of my left paw,
and then a brilliant flash temporarily stole my vision.
When my sight and senses came back to me, I realized what
had transpired. My owners had just transformed me into a
"pet model." (see picture).
Sure, I have the looks to pull off this model thing. But
I have to ask: what's in it for me? My owners are off to
parlay my picture into untold fortunes. But will there be
a little something extra in my dish? I think I know the
answer. And frankly, it's making me look bad. When you become
immortalized on the internet, the neighborhood posse quickly
rushes in to enjoy the spoils. Over and over again, the
gang keeps asking: "Fen, when's the warm grub coming?" I
typically mutter something about the lag time of royalties,
and then dart into another subject. But the clock is definitely
ticking on this one.
The life of a model should be glamorous,
right? Complete with lots of attention and "opportunity",
if you know what I mean. Yeah, the ladies in the neighborhood
are looking at me differently these days. Adoring eyes,
and all. This would be great news for many hounds but—helloooo!--my
owners had me neutered. So I just smile as I pass by, and
pretend that I am in an immense rush to get somewhere important.
My wish list is not that outrageous,
really. Gimme a Lincoln Town Car, complete with custom windows
that are about three inches too short. Put a personal driver
behind the wheel. And throw in a debit card loaded with,
like, ten grand. With that kind of set-up, I can actually
experience the dream sequence ost frequently encountered
in the canine world: unlimited access to drive-thru food.
Furthermore, this invincible fence has
got to go. Can you imagine J. Lo having to deal with an
invisible fence? Here she comes, gracefully plotting a course
down the red carpet as she exits a gala affair. But just
before she steps into the limo, a sharp shrill rips through
her ears and then a wicked shock sends her sprawling to
the pavement. How dysfunctional is that? Stars swagger.
I can do that. But it's hard to pull off when a jolt of
electricity has just thrown your entire body into spasm.
And I've got to chew. Sandals? I wanna
chew 'em. Furniture? Ditto. Leather bags? Just turn your
head, and let me do my thing. You knew I had teeth when
you adopted me. And every training book on the planet mentions
a puppy's propensity to gnaw. Write it off to foolishness
on your part, and start using your time productively: by
creating a systematic plan for picking up the shredded matter
in my wake.
I'm going to need a phone, too. My siblings
are scattered through the Northeast, and they always told
me I needed to "play the game" with the humans if I ever
wanted to amount to anything. You know, fetch sticks and
"sit" and confine my bathroom trips to the outdoors. But
they've got it wrong, and I must tell them before it's too
late. I've got a publicist and she says I ought to act badly
once in a while. "Rebel + handsome = big bucks," she says.
In fact, I've just left some moisture in the living room
as an image builder."
Final issue: the cats. I know they were
here first. But I need to pummel them every now and then,
without fear of retribution. I won't hurt them. Not much,
anyway. But I am just sick of their snickers and their "You
can't touch us and you know it" attitude. Just one day a
week, let's do things as they do in the "wild." They'll
survive; I promise. But we don't have to tell them that.
Fortunately for my owners, I am deeply
committed to their cause. I was not yet born when that Boone
guy hit his home run last fall. But even a dog can tell
the difference between right and wrong when there's this
much "wrong" involved. Frankly, it isn't that hard to reverse
this so-called curse. You just have to stick to the basics,
and let the dogs take over. My owners actually left a copy
of the most recent Sports Illustrated intact. Yeah, the
one with Manny on the cover. Don't you know that's a jinx?
I quickly began chewing it up, and Manny went on to hit
two HRs that night against the Yankees. But my owners angrily
stopped me before I could finish the job, and we all know
how that game ended. Sweep for the Yanks. Ugh. Like I said
above, just let me do my thing. And it will all be okay.
Now where's my river?
("Fenway" is a highly-energetic Labrador/beagle
mix who actually loves to fetch baseballs, though he will
never admit it for fear of ruining his "street cred". He
was adopted from the Sterling, MA Animal Shelter (www.sterlingshelter.org)
and his original name was "California". The cap he wears
in the photo above is called the "Fenway's Reverse" version;
it was designed with the Chicago and Boston markets in mind).
HATEFUL IN PINK
JULY 22, 2004 – Calling all ladies!
Our retro-tour of the 1980's is about to begin. And we created
it just for you. First, an explanation: many of you said
we ignored your ponytails, as evidenced by the closed-back
style of our baseball caps. Some of you also said that we
failed to offer a color scheme that showed off your fashionable
side. Talk about putting the pressure on us. Well, it took
us three months to respond. God knows, we didn't want to
screw it up. Now hop aboard the retro train, and let's see
how we did.
The year is 1986. It was the year that the Energizer Bunny
was unleashed. It was also the year that a television station
made the incredibly fortuitous decision to change the name
of its morning show from "A.M Chicago" to the "Oprah Winfrey
Show." Big hair was everywhere, and the demand for hair
spray reached all-time heights. A trip to the movie theatre
would have offered choices like "E.T.", "Ghost Busters"
and "Die Hard."
The year 1986 also brought great excitement
to the Boston sports scene. And great despair. The Celtics
won an NBA championship. The lowly-regarded New England
Patriots shocked the world by parlaying a wild card playoff
spot into a Superbowl run. But it ended badly after the
Chicago Bears pummeled the Patriots, 46-10. Of course, 1986
was also the year of the infamous Bill Buckner play.
Among all this madness, a historically-significant
color known as "shocking pink" emerged, haphazardly splashed
upon the '80's landscape like a 50-gallon drum of paint
over a broad white canvas. Famed '80's moviemaker John Hughes
paid homage to the color in "Pretty in Pink" (1986), which
featured a main character with a penchant for gathering
pink items. Pink flamingos were all of a sudden cool, fueled
by a cameo appearance in the introduction of the hit T.V.
show, Miami Vice. Lawn ornament companies stumbled all over
one another, trying to fully capitalize on the craze.
Times would change. The '90's brought
grunge rock and a plethora of earthy colors to the forefront
of fashion. The palate no longer had room for heart-pumping,
scintillating colors like shocking pink. So, all of those
attention-grabbing garments of the '80's fell into the shadows
as storage trunks slammed shut. For shocking pink, it was
over as quickly as it had begun. But much like the 17-year
cicada, those garments have started to rustle again in the
underground areas of vintage clothing shops. In short, it's
time for them to fly. All over again.
Who are we to fight this? We searched
high and low for the exact shade of pink that we remember
from the '80's, with the idea that we would incorporate
it into an open-backed (e.g., ponytail accommodating) baseball
cap. It wasn't easy. But just when it looked like we might
have to abandon this endeavor, we opened a thread book made
by the Airplane Embroidery Thread Company. In it, color
#8012 sat there quietly, as though it had been waiting on
us. Then, it suddenly jumped off the page and grabbed us
by the throat! Yeah, this was definitely the color we remembered
from the '80's.
After creating about a half-dozen unworthy
prototypes, we went back to the drawing board. As it turns
out, it isn't easy to marry off "shocking pink" to another
color (or colors). But when white and navy blue entered
the fray, a beautiful union was created. Toss our "hate"
theme into the mix, and you have a cap that will make our
lady customers both pretty and hateful in pink.
Then there's the "Hateful in Pink" t-shirt.
Again, we wanted to make a product that could stand up to
the quality standards demanded by the ladies. We test-marketed
the shirt and offered it up for public scrutiny on a few
different occasions. In this case, there was no need for
revisions; the feedback was overwhelmingly positive on the
first design we created. We retained a highly-reputable
shirt maker in California to construct the final product,
insisting on high thread counts and exact sizing. They are
producing the shirt as this is written; it should be available
in a few weeks. Please check back for more details.
And so the train stops here. We hope
you enjoyed the ride. Please exit carefully to the left.
And don't forget to bring shocking pink with you.
(This piece was written by Michael
Moorby, CEO of Rebel Forces, LLC [the owner of Yankeeshater.com].
He periodically writes columns that detail his experiences
with this small-market company, in an effort to entertain
fans and educate would-be entrepreneurs).
SANDY BUT NOT A BEACH 
RECIPE FOR COOL: One Apache helicopter,
Army fatigues, and a few Yankeeshater caps. Pulling it off
are (left to right): SGT Robert Hauser, Westfield, MA; SSG
Robert Wing, Saugus, MA; SGT Grey Tesh, Seattle, WA; CPT
Chad Corrigan, Rehoboth, MA; and SPC Christopher Murray,
Newport, RI.
July 6, 2004 – Want to attempt something
difficult, perhaps impossible? Say the word "Iraq" and try
to envision happy faces at the same time. Didn't happen
for you, did it? That may change momentarily.
The U.S. efforts in Iraq are the subject
of great debate and tomes of propaganda. There's no chance
of resolving those issues here. I wouldn't even try. But
few people would dispute the seriousness of the mission,
as it relates to the well-being of our soldiers. Suffer
a lapse of attention, and someone could get hurt. Or worse.
So the trick is to put on a stone face 24/7, and keep things
ultra-serious at all times, right? Maybe not.
It seems that the human spirit requires
the normality of laughter once in a while, in order to recharge
and sharpen one's focus. That is according to the experts
in the field. The "field", in this case, being Iraq. "We
do have our daily sports banter all the time," wrote Sgt.
Robert Hauser of Westfield, MA in a June 22, 2004 email
to Yankeeshater.com, shortly after ordering a cap through
the website. "We have to live and work with Evil Empire
fans everyday. So the (Yankeeshater.com) hats were a great
tool in deflating their egos." The 29-year-old Hauser, a
loyal Red Sox fan, wrote the email from Iraq, where he serves
in the U.S. Army assigned to the 1st Armored Division. He
has spent roughly 15 months in Iraq. Serious work, to be
certain. But it's not without its light moments. As it turns
out, putting Red Sox fans and Yankees fans together in close
quarters may actually have some therapeutic value.
"Practical jokes are pretty commonplace,"
writes Sgt. Hauser. "When there is no mission going on,
we take time from the daily grind to unwind, otherwise we
would go nuts." "We were so excited just to show (our caps)
to the Yankee fans in the unit. Boy, do they get angry about
little things." Sgt. Hauser will be leaving Iraq shortly
and heading off to Kuwait (2 weeks) and Germany ("a couple
months"). He expects to get "leave" sometime in August,
and is understandably excited to return home for a spell.
The scenery will change greatly from the washed-out, sandy
horizons of the Iraq desert to the plush, green landscape
of the Northeast. Though one has to wonder if his experience
as a sports fan will change much. "Everyday, we have to
listen to (the Yankee fans in the unit tell) the story about
last year's Game 7," Sgt. Hauser wrote. "We just keep our
heads up and tell them this is our year".
Sgt. Hauser and some others in his unit
make time to show their loyalty for their beloved Red Sox,
and this is not a one-way street: this season, Red Sox relief
ace Keith Foulke has been showing his appreciation for the
U.S. troops in Iraq by wearing a U.S. flag on his cap. Though
MLB recently required Foulke to remove the flag from his
cap, the resulting media attention allowed Foulke an opportunity
to express his strong, pro-military convictions: "I'm a
patriotic person, and it's just a personal thing that I
wanted to do," Foulke was quoted as saying in an AP article.
"I think I should be allowed to honor (the troops) by wearing
that hat." Sgt. Hauser was touched by Foulke's appreciation,
and he's not alone: "I think Keith Foulke is awesome," wrote
Hauser in a follow-up email on July 5, 2004. "I think [what
Foulke said] is the best thing I have heard from a baseball
player in a long time. He has earned the respect of a lot
of people in the military."
We first encountered Sgt. Hauser shortly
after he ordered the Yankeeshater.com cap that many refer
to as the "Schilling" version. We sent samples of all of
our other versions (e.g., Seattle, NY, Baltimore, etc.)
as well, in the hope that they would bring a bit of fun
to a serious situation. Sgt. Hauser quickly couted out his
unit for like-minded fans in an effort to find proper "homes"
for the caps.
Sgt. Hauser's pro-Sox/anti-Yankees brigade
included SSG Robert Wing of Saugus, MA, CPT Chad Corrigan
of Rehobeth, MA and SPC Christopher Murray of Newport, RI.
But Sgt. Hauser also received West Coast reinforcement from
Sgt. Grey Tesh of Seattle, WA. This crew gathered in front
of an AH-64A Apache helicopter to create an Iraq photo that
can't possibly elicit anything but smiles (see photo above).
Still, Sgt. Hauser wishes that the photo could have included
a few others in his unit. "We couldn't get the Baltimore
fan in there to do the "mission", but we will in the future,"
wrote Sgt. Hauser, suggesting that other photos may be forthcoming.
"I can't seem to find any Mets fans that hate the Yankees
yet. I know they are out there, though."
Maybe they were all at Shea Stadium
this past weekend (July 2-4), watching the Mets pummel the
Yanks in a three-game sweep. How about another round of
smiles, this time for the Mets fans? It's the best therapy
around.
(This article was written by Michael
Moorby, CEO of Rebel Forces, LLC. He will continue to provide
glimpses into his experiences with the company—including
accounts of some of the interesting path-crossings he encounters—until
people plead with him to stop).
CRITICALLY ILL
June 23, 2004 – After Yankeeshater.com
was launched in April, we expected critics. Our expectations
were quickly met. One early visitor to the site wrote: "I
am emailing you to say that your website sucks!!!!!!
and that it is soooo stupid to have a Yankees hater website
cuz…no one cares!!!!!!"
To this day, it's one of my favorite
emails. For starters, it's not every day that one encounters
a six-exclamation-point remark. As everyone knows, it takes
just three exclamation points (four, max) to make an impact
statement. So, this email could not possibly be ignored.
But mostly I liked the email because it showed passion,
notwithstanding the fact that the author and I did not stand
in the same place philosophically.
Presumably, the message was created
by a Yankees fan. A predictable source, to be sure. But
sometimes criticism comes from a direction that cannot be
easily anticipated. Enter Steve Silva, webmaster of the
popular Red Sox fan website, bostondirtdogs.com
"Real Red Sox fans are sick and tired
of this obsession with the Yankees," said Silva in a recent
Baltimore Sun article about Yankeeshater.com. "Yankees Hater
is just a rip-off of Yankees suck. It's cheap and low-rent
and makes us all look like idiots." (click here to read the Sun's June 19, 2004 article)
Excellent passion, Steve. It's the type
of bold stance that makes bostondirtdogs.com such an excellent
fan site. So excellent, in fact, that you were able to sell
it out to a New York Times-owned company (Boston.com) back
in May. But while you were counting your Boston.com
beans, your finger must have slipped off the pulse of the
Red Sox Nation. Those enthusiastic fans that we encountered
at Fenway Park in mid-April—the ones leading the customary
anti-Yankees cheers and wearing matching regalia—weren't
ghosts. They were definitely real.
Want to fully examine and understand
the psyche of a real Red Sox fan? It cannot possibly be
done without significant references to the Yankees. By significant,
I mean "past" references (e.g., George Herman Ruth), "present"
references (e.g., the Red Sox' current position in the standings
relative to the Yankees) and "future" references (e.g.,
"The Sox are going to whip the Yankees this year."). Let's
face it: real Red Sox fans want Boston's next championship
to come at the expense of the Yankees. Show me a "real"
Red Sox fan that disputes this claim. I'll either show you
a liar, or someone with mega-capacity for repression.
Need empirical evidence? We receive
thousands of emails from Sox fans who feel the need to comment
on our web content and our Yankeeshater caps. My personal
favorite: "Thank you for this public service." Another email,
written by a Boston-based Red Sox fan, offered some multi-generational
perspective: "I come from a long line of Yankees Haters.
My grandfather, my father, all of my aunts and uncles—and
even all my in-laws—are true Yankees Haters. I even have
cousins in Baltimore and they are all Yankees Haters." These
messages pretty much say it all; the sentiment really is
that widespread. And from this sentiment comes a heavy and
constant dose of entertainment. We've got the white hats;
they have the black hats. Ignore the black hats, and all
you have is a scrimmage. If that's the state of nirvana
that you seek, Steve, then you should book a long trip and
go find it. Because it isn't in Boston.
As for Silva's crack about our Yankeeshater
merchandise being a rip-off of "Yankees Suck", one comment
suffices: Good enough for Schilling, Good enough for me.
(This piece was written by Michael
Moorby, the CEO of Rebel Forces, LLC. He will continue writing
about his experiences with this new, start-up company until
web visitors beg him to stop, or until Steve Silva successfully
returns from his sabbatical).
A LEGAL "RELEASE"
June 5, 2004 – At precisely 10:30:45
a.m. on April 22, 2004, a simple yet important e-mail ticked
into the Yankeeshater.com inbox.
A turning point followed.
And now there's no going back. The e-mail
arrived as we were agonizing over a major business decision.
Just a couple days earlier, Curt Schilling had made our
"YH w/ Horns" baseball cap famous overnight, after wearing
it to a Bruins playoff game. It took a while for the media
and the public to identify the source of this cap, which
was initially intended to be a promotional item and not
the cornerstone of our cap-selling business. But once the
word was out, the people quickly found us and demanded this
punchy version of the cap. Giving it to them, however, was
not the dollars-and-cents "no-brainer" that it appeared
to be.
For starters, it was pretty obvious
that The Evil Empire was not going to be enthralled with
the design of this particular cap. Sure, we felt strongly
that we had a First Amendment right to parody the Empire's
logo. But the U.S. legal system (and the major league baseball
system) often makes victors out of those who can outspend
their opponents. And in this case, we were clearly the Expos.
The safer call was to limit sales to the other versions
of the cap.
Enter the e-mail. At the top of the
e-mail—in the subject section—the author wrote: "Release
the hats!" The author simply continued the thought in the
body of the e-mail itself: "or someone else will." The dramatic
effect was intense.
I must have read these portions of the
e-mail twenty times. A variety of images whirred through
my head. The most troublesome one depicted George Steinbrenner
and his two meaty arms raking in a large stack of cash—formerly
owned by Yankeeshater.com--across a mahogany table
as a team of beaming MLB attorneys looked on with Cheshire
grins.
The e-mail continued. "There are hundreds
of thousands of die-hard Sox fans not able to be outside
Fenway everyday, and being able to buy one of the 'Schilling'
YH hats would mean a great deal," pleaded the Washington,
DC transplant. "I know you have different designs, but as
with any fashion trend, Schill didn't wear one of your other
designs."
Hmmm. Perhaps we had a duty to
give the people what they wanted, I thought. If anyone was
going to do it, it should be us. The thought of someone
or something else releasing the hats we created left a sickening
feeling in the gut. And the e-mail's author—a person by
the uncommon name of "Eben"—was persuasive in his claim
that others would seek to capitalize on this mania if we
stepped back. Nothing about that felt right.
So, we released the hats. And in a classic
case of fulfilled prophecy, others released the hats as
well. Counterfeiters pushed product on eBay and in the vicinity
of Fenway Park. There were even instances of retail stores
in the Boston, MA area selling fake (and vastly inferior)
products. Bummer.But it has often been said that you're
nothing in the business world until you've been imitated.
And sued. Well, we've achieved the former honor. The jury
is still out, however, as to the second milestone. But it's
probably safe to say that the Stormtroopers are polishing
their boots.
Meanwhile, baseball fans across the
country continue to revel in the gag so beautifully completed
with Mr. Schilling's unscripted help. For many people—including
a fair number of good-natured Yankees fans—the buzz surrounding
this cap has generated the type of entertainment that makes
baseball fun. The young fans (a demographic that MLB deems
crucial to the future success of the sport) absolutely love
the edginess and honesty of these caps. Many parents love
the caps because the alternatives (e.g., "Yankees Suck",
etc.) are much more objectionable.
Will MLB attempt to end all this fun
with a legal battle? That's uncertain. But if a battle does
ensue, one thing is for sure: unlike the 2002 All-Star game,
this is a clash that will not end in a tie.
(This piece was written by Michael
Moorby, the CEO of Rebel Forces, LLC. Rebel Forces, LLC
is the owner of Yankeeshater.com. Mr. Moorby will continue
to provide accounts of Rebel Forces, LLC's business evolution
until a suitable number of website visitors plead with him
to stop).
MAGNIFICENT MISTAKE
April 29, 2004 -- It all started with
a mistake. A gaffe made at the most crucial time, when there
was no time to correct it. I still remember it well: the
pain; the frustration; the feeling of helplessness. But
now, there's just joy.
Here's the set up: the calendar reads
Monday, April 12, 2004. After six months of planning, the
first-ever shipment of caps to our company—Rebel Forces,
LLC—was set to arrive after a long, 30-day ocean trip. It
was an exciting day. Plus, the timing was perfect, with
the first Red Sox/Yankees series of the year just days away.
During the preceding several months,
several different versions of our Yankeeshater cap (Boston
Version) were created. Almost all of them hit the scrap
heap. One cap that was left standing was the Boston Version
"yh" cap. We liked it for a lot of reasons. It was subtle
and tasteful, yet full of anger and fury. Unlike its "YH
w/ Horns" cousin, it was not a bawdy parody piece. It made
a statement, without drawing too much attention to itself.
If baseball caps could fight, we suspect that "YH w/ Horns"
would flail at 'yh" with reckless abandon for several rounds,
being before sent to the canvas with a well-timed, efficient
right hook.
The first shipment was supposed to consist
mostly of "yh" caps, with a smattering of "YH w/ Horns"
caps. The latter cap was to be used only as a limited edition
piece; we had planned to send numbered certificates to random
purchasers of the 'yh" cap, offering up a chance to buy
it.
But it's a funny thing about plans.
In this case, ours broke down quickly when I ripped open
box after box, only to find "YH w/ Horns" caps. There wasn't
a single "yh" cap in the lot. A terrible mistake had been
made by the factory. With no time to rectify this awful
mistake, we were dead in the water. The "YH w/ horns" caps
did not match the promotional postcards that we had printed
up: those postcards pictured our favorite son, the "yh"
cap.
Here's what followed: lots of pacing;
a fair amount of expletives; and the intake of several Advil.
The press kits had already been printed up, and were slated
to be sent off to select media targets, such as Tony Kornheiser
& Michael Wilbon of Pardon The Interruption, Kostya Kennedy
of Sports Illustrated, Bob Ryan and Dan Shaughnessy of the
Boston Globe, and others. What to do?
Fire away, that's what. No, it wasn't
the right cap. But these media kits had to go out now. And
the Red Sox had to get their caps, too. My unwitting point
man in Boston? Alleged clubhouse crackpot Kevin Millar.
"Please, please, please, Kevin." I thought. "Do something
insane with these hateful caps. Just don't throw them away."
Well, I did not have the luxury of traveling
with those caps after they were shipped. But I would have
paid a good buck to see the team's reaction when they arrived.
If anyone could build a rally around something so whimsical,
we figured it was Number 15. We figured right.
A short time later, Curt Schilling donned
the hat and, in so doing, created a national news story.
We've looked at that picture hundreds of times at this point.
There's a certain smile on his face. Almost like he expects
chaos to follow. It's the kind of smile that one might see
on, let's say, the face of a teenage boy about to set a
lit firecracker under a rival's chair. Except in this case,
we're talking about many rivals and many chairs. Directors
chairs, to be precise. Lettered with names like Jeter, Giambi
and Posada.
And after a 1-6 start against the Red
Sox this season, their ears are still ringing. Which brings
us back to the mistake. But for the factory mistake, the
"YH w/ Horns" cap never gets sent to the Red Sox Clubhouse.
But for Curt Schilling wearing this particular style of
cap, there's not a media frenzy following the Boston Herald's
photo. And but for the media frenzy, Rebel Forces, LLC does
not end up besieged with cap orders and interview requests.
So take time in your day to screw a
few things up. You might like the results.
HEY CURT!
WHAT'S THAT ON YOUR SQUASH? My cell phone rang at 7:42 a.m. This
almost never happens. Still, I suspected nothing out of
the ordinary. How clueless I was. "There's a picture of
Curt Schilling in the Boston Herald this morning," said
my friend Coop. "He's wearing the Yankeeshater™ baseball
cap!"
Now, I've been on the receiving end
of a fair number of Coop antics over the years. So, I was
not about to be easily convinced. After quickly dismissing
Coop—who was still stammering on the phone when I hit the
"end" button—I made a few calls in the interests of confirming
this unlikely event. Before long, I had a scanned image
of the photograph in my hand. Disbelief set in. My stomach
started to rumble. It was true.
Amazingly, the Herald's caption to the
photograph made no reference to the cap on Schilling's head.
It simply noted that Schilling and teammate Keith Foulke
had used a day off to take in a Bruins playoff game. How
nice. Are you kidding, Herald? "The cap on his head is the
news story," I proclaimed, "and the Herald missed it!"
But the New York Times didn't. The Times
ran the same image of Schilling, but added a cutaway, magnified
image of the cap's Yankeeshater logo. The Times quickly
resolved the double takes that must have been happening
at breakfast tables across the New York area. Upon further
review, this was definitely not a Yankees cap. Different
colors. Different logo. Different interlocking letters.
And, of course, a much different "target audience."
The craziness was just beginning, however.
An interview request from CBS Channel 2 in NY came in. "We
want to do a color piece," explained the assistant news
director for the station, who also happens to be a die-hard
Red Sox fan. "I saw the cap at Fenway Park this past weekend,
and thought it was great."
Excellent. Our promotional efforts at
Fenway Park (described in an earlier column, which is now
available in the Poison Pen archives section) had really
made an impact. I scanned several sports-related websites
to see if the Schilling photo was making additional appearances.
It was. And there were many different appearances. I would
use the word "surreal" to describe the experience to this
point, but for the fact that these events paled in comparison
to what was coming.
The phone rang. Again. "I think your
cap is about to be shown on ESPN Sports Center," the caller
said. As it turned out, ESPN teased the Schilling cap-wearing
story twice before finally delivering the promised goods.
The first teaser came just before a commercial break. The
second teaser came in the form of rolling text on the bottom
of the screen. This might be the first baseball cap in ESPN
history to get two-teaser treatment, I thought.
The hits on the Yankeeshater.com website
followed. And then came the cap orders, one from as far
away as Puerto Rico. All because of a silly idea for a product
and a marketing campaign that was even more silly.
So how did Curt Schilling get the cap?
I've heard all kinds of rumors, including one claiming that
teammate Kevin Millar had the cap custom-made just for Schilling.
Well, that's not exactly true. But it's close.
We sent three boxes of caps (36 caps
in all) to Kevin Millar in the Boston Red Sox clubhouse.
Delivery was strategically set to occur on Thursday, April
15, 2004: the day before the Yankees came to town. From
there, I can only imagine that Kevin Millar shared his 36-cap
stash with his teammates. Insert Schilling, and you have
a wrap on this story. And what a sweet story it is.
(This piece was written by Michael
Moorby, CEO of Rebel Forces, LLC, which owns Yankeeshater.com.
He plans to share his experiences with this website for
as long as they remain interesting)
BEANTOWN BECKONS
BOSTON, MA -- For a weekend, I felt
trapped in an episode of The Apprentice. Except in
this version, it was “FENWAY PARK”—and not “TRUMP”--that
was strategically emblazoned all over the premises.
The task: to generate goodwill
and publicity for an obviously inane endeavor.
The product: a baseball cap designed to show loyalty
for one team and hate for another.
The staff: one underpaid brother, capable of working
diligently for as many hours as needed; and one friend,
capable of working semi-effectively until the beer takes
hold.
The idea was for the three of us to
convene in Boston after traveling in from various starting
locations. Arrival times differed. And so I initially found
myself off to Fenway Park by myself, about six hours before
the start of the first Red Sox/Yankees game of the year.
If I could find a nearby sports bar that was amenable to
hosting our promotional effort, I thought, then life would
be good. After all, we had promotional caps and postcards
to give out. What bar manager could resist a free (and timely)
promotion on the brink of this great baseball rivalry?
I approached Fenway Park near Gate B,
and saw a crowd gathered around the new Ted Williams statue.
The statue actually depicts two figures: Ted Williams (in
his playing days) and a young fan who is about to have an
adult-sized baseball cap placed on his small head by this
all-time great. It should have been tear-jerking stuff.
But my immediate thought was how cool it would be to slip
a Yankeeshaterä cap over
the statue's bronze cap. Thankfully, I thought better of
that and moved along.
A short time later, I found myself inside
the Cask 'N Flagon, a bar that bills itself as a Fenway
Park tradition. I had been warned that the Cask 'N Flagon—located
across the street from Gate E--takes itself a bit too seriously.
Nonetheless, I rambled up the bar manager and explained
my promotional objective. Somewhere in the explanation,
I blurted out the word “Yankeeshater.” That was the bar
manager's queue.
“No thanks,” he said in a polite yet
direct manner. “I don't want any fights in here.” As I headed
for the exit, I noticed that one of the bartenders donned
a well-worn Yankees baseball cap. Was the Cask 'N Flagon
really afraid of fights breaking out? Or was this a well-concealed
satellite office for the Evil Empire? As the sun struck
my face and the bar door closed behind me, I wasn't so sure.
I'm still not.
Fortunately for our cause, a newspaper
“merchant” was setting up shop on the curb--just outside
the Cask 'N Flagon--as I walked out. Just a few moments
later, I waved goodbye to the same gentlemen, who now wore
a large smile as well as a Yankeeshaterä
cap. The line of patrons that invariably forms outside the
Cask 'N Flagon before game time couldn't miss him. Or his
cap. Mission accomplished.
I phoned my brother, who had now arrived
in Boston and was passing the time with a vodka tonic in
the Champions Sports Bar at the Copley Square Marriott.
I flagged a cab, and off to the hotel I went. But not before
hearing the cabbie denounce professional sports as a productivity-sucking
enterprise that creates tunnel-visioned fanatics out of
our youth. No. I would most definitely not put a
Yankeeshaterä cap on his
head.
With the Cask 'N Flagon a bust, my brother
and I scrambled for a backup plan. As we talked, I looked
over the promotional postcards that he had couriered from
our Albany, NY printer. Our bartender looked on curiously.
A discussion ensued, and the bar manager got involved shortly
thereafter. These caps were a great idea, he proclaimed.
With great enthusiasm, he encouraged us to distribute our
caps and postcards to his patrons and staff. The word spread
quickly, and we were later visited by Marriott staff members
from the housekeeping and banquets departments. Hmmm. Maybe
there was something here.
Notwithstanding the strong reception
at Champions, we decided that another trip to Fenway Park
was a necessity. We packed up dozens of caps—and hundreds
of postcards—and started to walk towards Boylston Street.
We needed these caps to make an appearance in Fenway park.
All we had to do was find the right heads.
And we did. The most sought-after “target”
had the following characteristics: male, age 22-35, wearing
Boston Red Sox regalia on the body but nothing on the head.
Honestly, we deviated from this standard more than a few
times. In fact, it's quite possible that we were duped into
giving away several of the caps to Yankees fans. But members
of the target group were the ones wearing most of the caps
by the time the game's first pitch was thrown that night.
By the second inning, our promotional
effort was finished for the night and our friend's helpfulness
had dwindled to dust. We strode in the direction of the
Red Sox box office, after hearing that some tickets had
been made available at the last minute. After turning down
$27 tickets in the bleachers (no alcohol zone), we were
shocked to learned that front row Green Monster tickets—on
the leftfield foul pole—could be had. Sure, we had missed
almost one-third of the game, and these were pricey tickets
($110 apiece). But these were quite possibly the best three
seats in the house. And the Red Sox were winning. Sold.
As we watched the remainder of the game
from these select seats, it was hard not to feel a sense
of privilege. Green Monster seats are actually more like
bar stools, and there is a bar surface in front of the stools
that can support Fenway Franks, cups of cold beer, or the
weary torsos of those visitors who just want to lean. Honestly,
it's a difficult place to muster any hatred. Even for the
Yankees.
But we managed.
HATEFUL BEGINNINGS IN BOSTON
Hate is such an ugly word. But it's
the right word if we're all being honest. It's been a tough
history lesson. The Curse. 1918. Twenty-six championship
rings. Aaron f---ing Boone. Aaron f---ing Boone, again.
All leading to this.
The Evil Empire will descend upon Boston
shortly. Yes, the same Empire that brightened our existence
by losing an opening day game in Japan to the lowly Devil
Rays. Admit it. It was a good feeling.
If you have a ticket to Fenway Park
this weekend, good for you. It's the toughest ticket in
sports. Definitely a "high risk-high reward" type of event.
It's often been said in Boston that a Yankees loss is as
good as a Boston win. This weekend gives ticket holders
a shot at both. The ultimate daily double.
What Bostonian would trade a win over
the Evil Empire for a win over, say, the Blue Jays? Not
one. The difference is hate. If Major League Baseball allowed
the fans to vote one team out of the league, how many Bostonians
would vote for the Yankees? Not one. Again, the difference
is hate. The Boston/New York rivalry is hatefully good.
Boston fans watch Yankees games, hoping for losses. Yankees
fans do the same. The fact is that big George is missing
a huge money-making opportunity in Boston. Take a team of
commentators that is brutally biased against the Yankees—turn
them loose on a Yankees telecast—and make the feed available
in Boston. It wouldn't matter who the Evil Empire was playing.
People in Boston would watch.
And George shouldn't care why people
are watching. So long as they are watching. A telephone
call to either Vince McMahon (who proved viewers liked to
watch wrestlers they hate) or Howard Stern (who built a
significant audience of listeners who also happened to hate
him) would solidify the point.
Problem is, George loves his Yankees.
And he already has plenty of money. So, we probably won't
see any Yankeeshating telecasts any time soon. Yankees games
at Fenway Park will have to do.
Anyone have a spare ticket?
