I started watching baseball when I was 12 years old. My earliest baseball memory is the day I frantically raced home from a friend’s house to watch the Mets and the Oakland A’s. It was the 1973 World Series and I had to see the game. The Mets lost.
I’ve been a Mets fan all my life. I will remain a Mets fan until the day I die. I don’t jump on and off the bandwagon every time my team loses a ball game or two, or three – or ninety. It hasn’t been easy being a Mets fan, but hey, ya gotta believe.
Women baseball “fans” in the New York tri-state area root for the Yankees because they either a) think Derek Jeter is cute or b) need to be “in” by rooting for a winner.
A woman I work with has five Yankee banners in her cubicle and four Yankee magnets on her filing cabinet. She’s a real fan.
Knowing I’m a Mets fan, she will attempt to engage me in polite baseball banter; mostly along the lines of ‘Did you see the game last night? The Yankees won.’ I got so fed up one day that I asked her if she knew what the Infield Fly rule was. She stared at me kind of blankly and told me it was when the infielders had to catch the fly ball.
I knew what I was dealing with early on when I heard her on the telephone asking someone if they had seen the game the night before because “the Yankees went into overtime.”
Why wasn’t I born a man?
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