Behind Enemy Lines – Fenway Park

I don't want to spend too much time on this.  Walking into Boston's green stadium decked out in O's gear made me feel as awkward as Steve Urkel walking into a Ku Klux Klan meeting.  My orange and black clashed against everyone else's scarlet shirts.  Sox fans sneered and snorted as they walked past.  The place was packed.  Every street, corridor, and walkway had people streaming through, yet my handful of buddies and I were alone as Orioles fans.  If you want an objective analysis of Fenway, then go elsewhere.  I was a leper in Boston.

I had wanted to get to an O's/Red Sox game all summer because I had been living in Vermont for several months.  Some friends and I were free that weekend and decided to catch a game.  I searched for tickets for a while, and the cheapest we could come up with were $65 a piece.  If you show up to Camden Yards with 65 bucks, you are treated like royalty and seated behind home plate.  If you go to PNC Park with $65, I'm pretty sure they erect a granite statue of you and let you manage the team for the game.  Not so at Fenway Park.  In Boston, 65 bones gets you a 13 inch wide folding chair, 200 rows back in right field that makes your last American Airlines seat seem like a luxurious throne.  So, before the game, I met the ticket guy in a nearby McDonalds.  He had rolls of tickets and cash, a laptop, and some fries tucked away in the corner of the busy restaurant.  I handed him way too much money, he handed me way too crappy of tickets, and I left.

My buddies and I walked into the stadium via Yawkey Way as an orange freak show for the coarse Bostonians.  We entered a corridor that was a century old, it was narrow and uneven.  We were lost, but we wound around towards our seats somehow, well beyond the right field fence, several miles from the Pesky pole.  

 Right away I was struck by how short left field was and how enormous the Green Monster appeared in the outfield.  It was ridiculous, and at the time I commented that from our seats the field looked to be the size of a Little League park rather than a MLB stadium.  It is 302 feet to the Pesky pole, and 310 feet to the Green Monster.  All stadiums built after 1958 are required to have foul lines at least 325 feet.  Sox fans are lucky they have a geezer of a ballpark, otherwise its dimensions would be illegal.

My grade for the stadium is going to be low.  Incredibly expensive parking, absurd ticket prices, cramped seats, laughable dimensions, and the entire complex has the same sickly green color.  Sox fans gush about the unique old-timey beauty of the park.  The hype this place gets is nauseating.  I'll give the park 5 points just because it's historical: 5/15.

As for the food...well we were broke after buying the tickets and didn't eat anything at the park.  I used a water fountain outside of the men's room and had a tart, metallic taste in my mouth from it: 0/5.

Lastly, the fans.  Would you be surprised to hear that Red Sox fans were loud and uncouth, and spoke as though English was a second language behind IFAS, which of course stands for Irish Fetal Alcohol Syndrome?  Of course not.  Prior to the game I was treated with a haughty disdain typical of the historically challenged fan who has blocked out all baseball memories before 2004.  During the game, the local populace seemed perturbed that they were stuck near the only O's fan in the stadium.  I was not overly boisterous, but I did leap up and yell in the second when we ripped a screamer over the Green Monster.  Fans around me growled and told me to sit down.  Not in the haha-we're-fans-of-opposing-teams-so-we're-gonna-rip-on-eachother sort of way, but the I-hate-myself-and-in-order-to-make-my-life-bearable-I-have-to-drag-you-below-me sort of way.

Then, in the bottom of the second, our pitcher had a stroke and forgot how to throw a baseball and gave up the customary seven runs.  This made the Massholes cackle like they were back in middle school giving the nerdy kid a swirly.  I never heard anyone talk about baseball.  They would holler and yell when Boston scored, but besides that people didn't seem very engaged with what was going on.  I wondered if many of them could name every player on the Sox' lineup.  Of course when the headliners came up they would bellow – Fat Papi and Youk made their eyes roll back in their heads and their tongues loll to the side of their mouths.  After the game ended with the embarrassing score of 12-1, my friends and I sheepishly made our way out of the park.  A lady spotted my Ripken jersey and approached me in the first humane act I had experienced while there.  "Sorry we beat you so bad, it's just your team is really horrible."

I didn't think of anything to say besides "thanks", and we exited the old, green stadium.

That one lady earned the Red Sox fans a point: 1/10.

The overall score that Fenway earned in our ballpark ranking: 6/30.  The next lowest score belongs to Citi Field, with a 23/30.  As an Orioles fan, that's my take on the Boston Red Sox experience.  You can call me Shepard Smith, because this right here was Fair and Balanced.

Suck it, Sox.

Turner Field – Home of the Atlanta Braves

First off, I'd like to thank everyone for the support I felt while I was incarcerated by the Devils to the North.  I have since escaped their clutches and plan on keeping a low profile, using gorilla tactics to frustrate the enemy.  During my continual journeys, trying to keep a step ahead of the antagonists, I recently found myself driving from the Gulf of Mexico to the metropolis of Atlanta, Georgia.  The Orioles had a rare interleague series with the Braves, and Mark convinced me that for the sake of The Bastards, I had to make the trip.

I arrived at Turner Field about an hour before the start of the game on the 1st of July, after driving six hours.  Because of my unfamiliarity with the area, I bit the bullet and overpaid to park near the stadium, costing me 10 shekels.  I walked across the street to the main gate, occasionally high-fiving a rare O's fan along the way.  The stadium looked new and clean; I wandered into the ticket line.  A ticketing employee announced that military personnel would receive free admission and a half-priced ticket for a guest, and asked for service members to have their IDs out.  The group of college girls behind me noticed that I grasped my ID, and one of the buzzed coeds exclaimed, "Oh, you're in the military?  I'm gonna be your date, okay?"  She was obviously impressed by my sacrifice for freedom; the prospect of a half-off ticket hadn't entered her mind.  I turned, and the blonde sported a Braves t-shirt knotted to display her midriff and held a Miller Lite in a red Braves koozie.  Upon viewing the supporter of the evening's adversary, my eyes glazed over in disinterest and my face puckered sourly as I shifted to ignore the annoyance.  My lovely fiance would have been proud.

After I received my free ticket (valued at $18), my opinion of the venue brightened as I made my way to my seat.  You can see the view from where I sat, there didn't seem to be a bad seat in the house.  

The experience definitely had a southern feel to it.  The Braves fans were friendly and considerate; they had no reason to dislike a Baltimore Orioles fan.  The companies that advertized were regionally based, with Chick-fil-a, Delta Airlines, and Coca Cola adding to the southern atmosphere.  Even with the Atlanta skyline in the background, Turner Field had a homey feel that made watching the game comfortable and familiar.  I was slightly disappointed by the complete newness of the park, and while there are references to historical Braves players and teams, I expected that a proud franchise like Atlanta would emphasize their past more.  The stadium was fun and had an amusement park feel, but it wasn't very classical or retro.  Perhaps I'm spoiled because Camden Yards is the ultimate and original retro stadium.  Based on Mark's scale, I would give Turner Field a 12.5/15.  

I sat through three scoreless innings as Jeremy "Stormin' Mormon" Guthrie and Jair (Yes, Jair) Jurrjens entered into a pitcher's duel.  The lady next to me commented that JJ Hardy had been a good player for the Brewers years ago, and it seemed he was hitting his stride with the Orioles.  This boosted my opinion of the kindly and now intelligent Braves fans even higher.  I decided I would tour the rest of the park and took my leave.  My stomach led me to several eateries, and $5.75 later I was the owner of a foot long hot dog with all the fixings.

 

I hadn't eaten since two states ago, so the speed at which the jumbo dog was inhaled left little work for my taste buds.  From what I remember, the hot dog was serviceable, but I was surprised that in my wanderings I hadn't seen more sustenance that resembled southern soul food.  Where were the boiled peanuts, the hush puppies, the fried catfish, the BARBECUE?  Perhaps I missed it or didn't make it to the correct part of the park, but the food selection seemed to be lacking.  Yes, I was able to procure a hot dog.  Welcome to America's pastime.  At the Yard, barbecue-scented smoke billows from Boog's in right field.  Chunky crab cakes are seasoned with Old Bay.  It's a mid-Atlantic smorgasbord on the harbor.  A stadium has to create a cultural experience that highlights the local fare.  Otherwise, there's no reason for me to leave my couch and high definition TV and spend money at the ballpark.  I was planning on rating the food a 1 out of 5, but then I remembered that they sold 16 ounce cans of Yuengling lager, which bumped their food category up a full point: 2/5.

I had mentioned before that I was digging the fans.  Towards the sixth inning of the scoreless game, most of us were aware that Jurrjens was working on a no-hitter.  The Braves' young star, Jason Heyward, broke the tie, ripping a two-run line drive past the center field fence in the bottom of the sixth.  There was a huge drum in center field that led the cheer as fans made the tomahawk chopping motion with their arms after the homer.  In the top of the seventh, I watched a woman usher cover her gaping mouth, hoping with each anxious pitch that Jurrjens could carry the no-hitter another inning deeper.  Not long after that, Adam Jones extinguished her hopes with a single that was grounded up the middle.  Of course the O's couldn't score AJ, even after he stole second, but at least we appeared to be threatening in that one inning (Oh brother).

As per usual, the Stormin' Mormon pitched without run support, and after seven solid innings he handed the ball to our Hall of Shame-bound bullpen.  I can't say that at that point the floodgates were opened, but in any case the dam was breached and quickly we were losing by four runs instead of two.

Chipper Jones, a living legend of the Braves franchise, was warmly applauded and encouraged each at bat, while the miserable Dan Uggla swung wildly to a .175 average and a Golden Sombrero, but was never booed or disparaged by his patient fans.  Even the seven million dollar geriatric, Derrek Lee, received fan support because of his brief stint with the Braves.

Based on the general baseball knowledge and player support the Braves fans showed I would rank them with the highest grade possible, with the tipsy squaw at the ticket gate subtracting a point: 9/10.

This brings the overall tally for Turner Field to 23.5/30.  The fans were great, the stadium was enjoyable but lacked a classic feel, and increasing the diversity of the food offerings would make this ballpark one of the best.

Driving 12 hours roundtrip to see the Orioles get shutout was not the plan.  We were one-hit by a guy named Jair.  I was watching his speed, and only every once in a while he hit 90 MPH.  He wasn't throwing hard, but he threw a ton of strikes and his placement was impeccable.  I understand that he's been one of the best pitchers in the majors this year, but our showing was embarrassing.  We made him look better than he is.  There was no pep, no imagination, no fire, and no urgency in our play.  As I parked my car and shuffled to my bed at 3:30 that morning, I thought, "If only they cared as much as I do."

Bizarro Baseball

Ah yes, Spring Training.  The annual appetizer that activates our hunger for sunflower seeds, mustard dogs, and Boog's Barbeque.  In our advanced state of cabin fever we yearn for the sound of ash clubbing stitched leather and Joe Angel's final exhortation: "Put this one in the WIN column!"  Our eyes are weak and unfocused without the stimulating barrage of Orioles Orange that we, along with our friends, plan to faithfully don from head to toe.  Our nostrils strain to acquire the scent of freshly cut Kentucky Blue Grass and pine tar.  But it's a tease.  There's no Boog's.  Winning doesn't matter, and I doubt that Ed Smith Stadium boasts the same handsome turf that the Yard manicures.  Who cares anyways?  We're not going to get off work to drive to Sarasota to check.  It's Bizarro Baseball.  Remember the Seinfeld episode with "Bizarro Jerry"?  Elaine made friends with a guy who was like Jerry, but opposite at the same time.  That's Spring Training for me.  It's still baseball, but it's just not quite right.  Ties happen.  Winning is optional.  Half of the names on the O's roster are foreign to me.  The ballparks are surrounded by palm trees.  Bizarre.

Perhaps something else that adds to my general unease this year is the actual makeup of the team.  I just can't tell whether or not we're going to jell, and shuffling everyone around for a few innings per "game" doesn't help solidify my squishy apprehension.  Andy MacPhail's (in)famous motto is "buy the bats, grow the arms", and this policy has led to a fairly heterogeneous mishmash of players that may or may not become a functional force.  None of our many offseason pickups are really in the prime of their careers except for Mark Reynolds, the slugger with the three highest strikeout totals in MLB history.  Our additions are injury-prone wildcards: JJ Hardy (wrist), Justin Duchscherer (hip/depression), Derrek Lee (thumb), Kevin Gregg (knee), and Vladimir Guerrero (Count Choculitis).  Not to mention Brian Roberts' perpetual back spasms and Koji Uehara's yearly elbow injury.  But with all this doom and gloom we must remember that the O's did upgrade from last year (our All-Star was Ty Wigginton); we just can't view this as a "worst to first" scenario.  It is a realistic attempt at a .500 record given our market and division.  At this point, our short term goal is relevance and mediocrity rather than World Series triumphs and super model girlfriends.

Bizzaro Baseball also sends us conflicting messages about our young, studly pitching staff.  At two or three innings a game, our developing hurlers are supposed to prove that they're ready to start the season.  The problem is that the situations these kids are in during Spring Training are light-years apart from regular season competition.  Just because they're playing the Yankees doesn't mean they're contending with legendary Bronx Bombers.  Instead, they might face Derek Jeter's 15 year old nephew (cute PR stunt), A-Roid trying to bat lefty, and career Spring Training attendee, Reegie Corona.  What do you think the scouting report looks like for Reegie Corona?  I'm not sure, but if I'm Matt Wieters I might call a four-seam, another four-seam, and a bender at the knees just to see what happens.  Can you blame Brian Matusz if Mr. Corona shuts his eyes, says a prayer, and flails at the 0-2 curveball and somehow gets hold of it?  Maybe to some extent, but I just hate to read too far into any of this bizzaro nonsense.

Speaking of being level-headed, have you heard about our 23 year old Cy Young-to-be?!  Zach Britton is a power lefty with a low, lively fastball who has not allowed a run all spring, and has drawn more than his share of attention.  Chances are he'll be called up in late May once Justin Duchscherer becomes the first human to break three hips at the same time and heads for the DL.  Then we'll have Jake Arrieta, Brad Bergesen, Brian Matusz, Chris Tillman and finally Zach Britton in our 25 and under rotation, with Jeremy Guthrie anchoring at age 31.  This juvenile pitching staff will definitely have its ups and downs this year, but the growth potential is great.  Along with an extra run or two per game thanks to the offensive additions, it should translate to a few more wins, inching us towards a much-needed winning season.

In order to drive this notion of Bizarro Baseball home, let me direct your attention to the Spring Training leader in home runs, Jake Fox.

Jake is our back-up catcher.  Sort of.  He is actually fighting for the back-up catching job, and it seems like he may have earned it.  In his 45 at-bats this spring, he has hit seven homers, two more than anyone else in MLB.  That means if he gets, say, 500 at-bats this season, we can expect 78 homers, right?  Jake will make Barry Bonds* record just a bad memory.  This is the nonsensical bizarro atmosphere we're in during Spring Training.  Black is white, up is down, Jake Fox is Hank Aaron.  Gosh, just bring on the Regular Season.

The Hot Chick: Why I Strongly Dislike the Red Sox

You're at a party.  You're back in college; you're single and ready to mingle.  There's a group of three girls who are giving you some attention.  The conversations have been flirty and each chick has been making eyes at you (yeah, I realize how laughably unreal this scenario is, but let's humor the delusion for a while).  Throughout the night, you've discovered that each girl is from a different east coast city: Boston, Baltimore, and Pittsburgh.  

Quick, which one is the hot one?  Without any more information than their geographic upbringing, construct a mental picture of each girl.  Whose number do you want?  Which one is eh, so-so?  Which one do you stiff-arm and tell "I just remembered my car is illegally parked!"  You know who's who.  The Boston chick is the hot one.  She is smartly dressed in the telltale Burberry scarf tidily draped over her cardigan with Vineyard Vines twill pants.  Her hair is flowing, but still neatly in place.  Despite her prim and proper demeanor, the spark in her eye tells you she's trouble – and you are intrigued all the more. She has a refined air of condescension from those lavish summers spent sailing on the Cape and her semester-long stint of studying Indonesian pottery at an ivy-league institution. She's a looker and she knows it; she is the hot chick.

The Baltimorean is the satisfactory-looking friend.  She's nice, but quiet.  She's cute, but not breathtaking.  Jeans and a sweater get the job done; nothing fancy.  She kind of seems into you, but in the end you don't really click.  She's going to school at Towson, but you had never heard of it.  You try to keep the banter going, but her interest lags and is overwhelmed by the third member of the trifecta.

This third girl is from Pittsburgh, and she's got a half eaten squirrel hanging out of her mouth.  Her attire consists of a Roethlisberger jersey pulled over a hoody, sweatpants that say "Juicy" on the hind-end, and a battered pair of UGG boots.  She's loud and has the self-awareness of an anvil, with looks to match.  She hollers out a challenge; something about drinking you under the table.  Then she scoops you up and snaps a picture and promises to tag you on Facebook... where did that Bostonian trust fund babe get to?

What's the relevance of this scenario to... anything?  Well, tweak the characters slightly.  First, the guy you played in the story is named Adrian Gonzalez.  Instead of college coeds, the three suitors are the baseball teams:  the Boston Red Sox, the Baltimore Orioles, and the Pittsburgh Pirates.  Now it's starting to make sense.  Since 2004 and the advent of the Red Sox Nation, Boston is the hot choice for weak-minded group thinkers everywhere.  Boston's half a decade-long culture of winning has made the Sox an attractive option for players all over MLB.  The Red Sox's current beauty makes the Orioles appear uglier than they really are, and this league-wide perception that the O's perpetually belong with bottom-feeders like the Pirates causes our stock to fall even further.  Baltimore is really not that unpleasant, but our tough division, the enormous checkbooks of our rivals, and our association with ball clubs that haven't been relevant in centuries (sorry, Honus Wagner) overshadows our blossoming youth.  When you think about it, the Orioles are kind of like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries; we just need the coaching of a seasoned leader (Julie Andrews/Buck Showalter) and some time to mature, and eventually we'll be the prettiest girl at the ball (aka make the playoffs).

Alright, all bizarre music videos and chick flicks aside, let me say this clearly: I strongly dislike the Boston Red Sox.  I don't hate them.  'Hate' is a powerful word that I reserve for the likes of al Qaeda, France, PETA, Lucifer, and the Yankees.  My level of disdain for the Sox is instead comparable to my feelings towards black jelly beans, poison ivy, New Jersey, and politicians.  The thorn in my side that is the Red Sox organization has become an infection in recent years, and has spread, leaving me bedridden and feverish the past few weeks.  The recent acquisition of Gold Glove first baseman and slugger, Adrian Gonzalez, along with raking outfield speedster Carl Crawford left the baseball world worried.  The Homeland Security's Threat Advisory Level was raised to Orange as a result of the elevated probability of an attack on the following metropolitan areas: Toronto, New York, Baltimore, and Tampa.

The Red Sox are to baseball what Justin Bieber, Katy Perry, and Miley Cyrus are to the music industry.  They are the flavor-of-the-month, trendy nonsense that the unkempt masses rush to for popularity's sake.   As a child of the 90s, I don't think I saw anyone wear a Boston Red Sox hat until my late high school years.  I never realized that the Red Sox were a popular team.  As an Orioles fan, I never really worried about the Mo Vaughn or Nomar Garciaparra or the rest of the Sox roster.  We were concerned solely with the Yankees.  But now, when I travel back home, the red "B" hats easily outnumber the orange "O's" hats.  Was there a mass migration of Bostonians to the mid-Atlantic region?  Did they finally come to the conclusion that Chesapeake Blue Crab tastes more succulent than New England Lobster?  What else could have been the catalyst which caused so many to find their "Yawkey" way?  Oh, right.  The Red Sox finally won a World Series in 2004.  Welcome back to relevance, it's only been 86 years.

And therein lies the chief source of my contempt for the Red Sox.  This "Nation" of "fans".  This recently coined term "Red Sox Nation" just boils my blood.  Yes, pudding brains will argue that the phrase was first penned in Boston's 1986 World Series flop, but it never stuck or became a part of everyday vernacular until the Sox finally won in 2004.  Since then, fans of role models like Big Papi (steroids), Manny Ramirez (steroids), and Pedro Martinez (cockfighting?) have been sprouting up from Tuscon to Tuscaloosa.  And can these bandwagoners really classified as "fans"?  Or do they love baseball in the same way that Justin Bieber fans appreciate a Portamento*?  Real connoisseurs. 

You know how to distinguish between a real fan who stays loyal through thick and thin and a guy who chooses the fashionable option?  When you ask him what team he likes, pause for a couple extra seconds after he answers.  Then, he'll expose himself.  Not in the Brett-Favre-text-message way, but often times they feel compelled to justify their fanship.  It'll go like this-

You: Hey, nice to meet ya.

"Fan": Nice to meet you too.

You: John said you're from Seattle.  Are you a big Mariners fan?

"Fan": Actually, I'm a Red Sox fan.

PAUSE

"Fan": Yeah, my grandma's second cousin's niece on my dad's side went to college at BU, and I've been a Sox fan ever since.

You: *speechless*

This happens all the time when it comes to Red Sox and Yankees fans.  Every Sox or Yankees fan from Illinois to Idaho gives you some sort of personal back story about why they're a fan.  They don't want to come across as phonies who rejected their childhood hometown teams just when the going got tough.  In order to sleep at night, they dish you a concocted sentence about how they've been a fan since the dawn of time rather than hopping on the "Nation's" wagon after heeding the call to "Cowboy Up".

Besides the manufactured "Red Sox Nation", another snag I have with the Sox is this David-versus-Goliath mentality when it comes to the Yankees spending a gazillion dollars on salaries.  It's hypocritical to dub the Yankees as the Evil Empire and complain about dominating the market when Boston has become an Evil Empire in itself.  As of December 9th, the Red Sox had $594.75 million in salary commitments through 2018.  The Yankees have $613.28 million, just 3% more.  Here's a quote from USA Today to put that money in perspective with the rest of the AL East:

"The Yankees and Red Sox, alone, have 16 players who will earn at least $9 million in salary next season. The rest of the AL East division has just three players with that distinction."

What?!  Talk about disparity.  The only player that the Orioles are paying more than $9 million next year is Nick Markakis, who's worth every penny.  The high-rollers in the East absolutely dominate the rest of the league, allowing the Blue Jays, the Rays, and the Orioles to compete for third in the division.  The Red Sox are like China, the recently relevant bad guy.  America (Orioles) was content with duking it out with our old nemesis, mother Russia (Yankees), but this new threat in China (Red Sox) is just annoying.

So, what does this all tell us?  It says that just because the Red Sox are the sexy option now and that pop culture might think it's really cute to be a part of the "Nation", doesn't mean it's right.  It also says that even though we hang out with ugly chicks like the Pirates fan, doesn't mean that we're one of them.  The Oriole Way is an identity in itself, and as loyal fans we need to cling to our heritage and get some self-respect.  I know it's been 13 years since we've been at .500, but Boston's beauty is fleeting and I can see an orange dawn on the horizon.  Or is that my medication acting up again?  Irregardless, the Red Sox suck and the "Nation" is a lie.  The hot chick has the clap.

*A mild glissando between two notes for an expressive effect.

The Ghost of Jeffrey Maier: Why I Hate the Yankees

Nelson Cruz knows how Tony Tarasco felt when he got Maiered last week.

This month, 14 years ago, I was sent down a path of loathing and disdain from which there is no return.  As a nine-year-old who had witnessed his hero's consecutive games banners unfurl on the B&O Warehouse a year prior and had enjoyed an 88 win season that led to a wild card playoff berth, my allegiance to the Baltimore Orioles was steadfast.  We had beaten the Indians in the division series and were poised to take down the Yankees in the 1996 ALCS.

It was Game One in Yankee Stadium, and Brady Anderson and Raffy Palmeiro had slugged homers to give us a 4-3 advantage.  In the bottom of the eighth, the Yankee's young upstart shortstop came to the plate.  The eloquent, often easy-going Jon Miller was exasperated when he made the call.

We eventually lost the game in the eleventh and were sent home four games later.  The Yankees beat the Braves in the World Series.  This slugger was the hero of that series.

The fan who stole the game from Tony Tarasco and the Orioles was just a young boy.  He was a twelve-year-old from New Jersey (go figure) named Jeffrey Maier.  We know the saying "cheaters never prosper"...well, if Jeffrey Maier did not prosper, he at least benefited from his illegal act.  As a reward, he sat behind the Yankee dugout later in the playoffs, made an appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman, and received the key to New York City from Mayor Giuliani.  Yes, the key to the city.  For cheating.

This injustice stuck with me like an infectious malady.  From then on, I was not just an Orioles fan, cheering optimistically for my team.  I became an anti-Yankees fan, celebrating any negative event for my sworn enemies.  Not only lost games, but injuries, steroid allegations, and scandals were mini-triumphs.  I smiled when Darryl Strawberry was busted for soliciting sex and carrying coke.  I laughed when A-Roid admitted to PED use.  When Mark Teixiera's hamstring seized up during this ALCS, I hoped he was done for good.

This root of my hatred for the Evil Empire surfaced during Game Four of the Rangers/Yankees ALCS this past week.  This time, Robinson Cano launched a ball to right field that Texas' Nelson Cruz was tracking.  As Cruz went up for the grab, three scrubs reached out over the three-and-a-half foot thick wall and deflected the ball into the stands, swatting Cruz' glove out of the way.  He protested, pointing at the fans and yelling at the umpires.  TBS tried to show the altercation, but was forced to pan quickly away because the juicebag fan who ended up with the ball was jovially saluting Cruz with both middle fingers.  When I discovered soon after that the juicebag, twenty-year-old Jared Macchirole of Queens, was a Penn State student, I felt shame on top of anger.  This incident did not factor into the outcome of the game or change the direction of the series, and will not become a legend, like the Jeffrey Maier debacle, but it did force me to confront my hatred for the Yankees anew, like scraping open an old scar.

Now that my opinion of the New York Yankees is out in the open, I've created a History of Hatred to provide further evidence and reasoning for my sentiments.

1903– The Baltimore Orioles had been in the NL during the late 1800s, when they were a fiery bunch nicknamed the "Flying Spikes" who played dirty and slid with their cleats up.  In 1901, they became an AL team under John McGraw's leadership.  The larger, more powerful New York market desired another baseball team to join the New York Giants, which McGraw had secretly fled to.  A conference was held between the AL and NL to try to figure out a way to coexist.  McGraw demanded an AL counterpart in New York, and Baltimore was voted to relinquish its team and move it to the Big Apple.  Here began the subjugating and overpowering tendencies that New York wielded against Lord Baltimore's town as it related to baseball.  No wonder we have an inferiority complex.  The original O's were sacrificed to appease New Yorkers.

1914 – Everyone talks about the Red Sox giving up Babe Ruth to the Yankees, but Baltimore lays claim to him first.  Jack Dunn was the owner and manager of the Baltimore Orioles, which was a minor league team at the time.  He saw George Herman Ruth, Jr. pitch for a half hour and gave him a contract for $250.  It was while he was an Oriole that George received the nickname "Babe", and it stuck.  The Philadelphia Athletics and the Cincinnati Reds passed on Ruth, and he was eventually sold to the Boston Red Sox.  The Yankees most iconic and hallowed figure was a son of Baltimore, but no one remembers that because we were forced to be a minor league team.

1954- The Milwaukee Brewers/St. Louis Browns moved to Baltimore to become the new Baltimore Orioles.  A 17-player trade between the Yankees gutted the organization, and Baltimore fought for a new identity.

1966-1983- The Glory Years.  Six pennants and three World Series championships.  The Orioles dominated the Bronx Zoo.

1992- In the Seinfeld episode "The Letter", Elaine Benes was told to remove her Orioles hat while at a Yankee game.  She refused and was thrown out.  Tension between the clubs grew.  Ok, not really, but yeah, even on television the Yankees persecute us.

1996- Jeffrey Maier gave me first-hand knowledge of the emotion called hatred.  

2001- The Yankees took Moose from the Orioles.  Mike Mussina had 147 wins with the Orioles over ten seasons.  We had courted the Pennsylvanian since high school and he was a mainstay within the organization.  The Yankees gave him a blank check (they offered him $10 million a year while we were paying him $6.7 million) and a set of pinstripes.  It just didn't seem right seeing Moose in that uniform.

2003- Derek Jeter was named captain of the Yankees.  I hate him.  How he slaps at the ball when he hits.  How he smugly spoils pitch after pitch.  How he does that stupid jump throw from the hole at short.  How his stupid haircut is always the same.  How calm confidence radiates from his stupid, ugly, blue eyes.  How every interview he does is the same.  How he is in fifty different commercials at any one time. How when you watch the Little League World Series there are kids from Chinese Taipei who say their favorite player is Derek Jeter.  How kids from Atlanta, Cincinnati, Oakland, and (GASP), Baltimore, love Derek Jeter.  How he has beaten us time and time again with grounders that bleed through the infield.  He's a golden boy, and I hate him.  To partially borrow from Michael Scott: "If I had a gun, with two bullets, and I was in a room with Hitler, Bin Laden and Jeter, I would shoot Jeter twice."

                --As a note, this is not an actual threat, it is hyperbole.  I don't want my truck blown up--

2007- Alex Roidriguez- Not only was he bought for a gazillion dollars, but here are some notches on the bedpost that would make Joe DiMaggio proud:  Bostonian stripper, Las Vegas "exotic dancer", Eliot Spitzer's call girls, Madonna, Kate Hudson, and Cameron Diaz (the first half of the list was acquired while Alex was a husband and a father of two).  And, he used steroids.

2008- Mark Teixeira- Another superstar who sold his soul to the Evil Empire.  We offered our hometown boy $160 million and it still wasn't enough to bring him back to Baltimore.  This was a real heartbreaker for fans.  We expected to acquire him.  We needed a first baseman with some pop.  It was supposed to be a perfect fit.  I was an usher in the stands on Opening Day in 2009, when Tex made his debut with the Yankees, along with CC Sabathia.  I have never heard a ballplayer booed louder than when Tex first came to bat.  O's fans brought monopoly money and threw it at him like confetti.  He was 0 for 4 that game, and we all roared every time he made an out.  CC gave up six earned and we started the year with a 10-5 victory.

2010- There's plenty of current event ammunition to damn the Yankees.

                On October 8, during the series with the Twins, New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg started planning the Yankees World Series parade...How did that work out for ya?

                On October 19, beleaguered Yankee starter AJ Burnett was on thin ice, and had dropped seven of his last eight starts.  Yankees fans are not compassionate or understanding, and on Burnett's first batter that he had faced in 16 days, he started with two balls for a 2-0 count.  The fans booed him.  In the first inning.  For a 2-0 count.  Give me a break.

                On October 20, the night of the Maier-esque incident, Cal Ripken Jr. was working the post-game show for TBS.  As he discussed the next game's pitching matchup, THIS HAPPENED.  Yankees fans are mindless, heartless, bandwagoners who cannot begin to understand how angry this makes me.  Trying to dump a beer on Cal Ripken is as American as eating apple pie with chopsticks and smacking your mother with a 2 x 4.  That creature is lucky there aren't lynch mobs anymore.

                On October 22, the Texas Rangers won the pennant and are going to their first World Series.  But plenty of folks in the media are calling this more of a Yankees loss than a Rangers win.  There is bias everywhere, don't let anyone convince you otherwise.  Watch the ticker on ESPN.  Anytime the Orioles beat the Yankees or the Red Sox for that matter, I pay attention to how it is conveyed in the news.  It's always slanted in favor of the big dogs, even in a loss.  "Yankees Give One to the O's", "New York Struggles in Loss", and "Yankees Slip Up, O's Steal One".  How about "Orioles Pommel Yanks", or "Baltimore Dominates in Win"?  You'll never see those headlines.  The only time we make Baseball Tonight is to show A-Roid deflowering one of our young pitchers.  There's no equality of coverage; the media caters to the big-market teams.

By now, I hope I've made my point: I don't particularly like the Yankees.  They're a bunch of overpaid cheaters, adulterers, and Nazis.  If I ever have children, and they're acting too rambunctious before bed, I'm going to warn them that if they don't go to sleep, then Jeffrey Maier's going to get them.  After all, his crime has been haunting me ever since I was nine, and I turned out normal, right?...Right?!

Go to yankeeshater.com to get your own Orioles-version Yankee Hater hat.