I'm a Mets fan by birth. I grew up in Queens, saw lots of games at Shea, and I remember '86. I should hate the Yankees.
But I don't hate the Yankees.
Oh, my mom does. With good reason. My grandfather on my mom's side was kind of a bastard. A mean drunk, given to bitterness and cheap sentimentality. He also didn't especially care for kids. And he was a diehard Yankees fan. For my mom, being a Mets fan is a declaration of independence. And it should be. He could be a real jerk, my mom's dad.
But I don't hate the Yankees.
Last night I was finishing up some work and turned on the teevee, and I stopped at the Yankees channel. They were rained out in Chicago so they showed a replay of Dave Righetti's perfect game on July 4, 1983.
I remember that game, nearly every out. I remember it because I was 14, and I was standing next to my grandpa as he cooked for a family barbecue, and we were listening to the game on a transistor radio. Like many 14 year old boys, I was at that time a baseball nut, and while I was a Mets fan... a perfect game is pretty amazing.
Grandpa and I listened to that game together like he was as 14 as I was. It was a pretty bumpy ride -- Righetti worked a bunch of bad counts. By the 7th grandpa was only barely pretending to cook. By the 8th he had his arm over my shoulder and we were trading bullshit about breaking balls like we were veterans. And we shook goddamn hands when Wade Boggs struck out to end the game. Grandpa didn't do hugs. But he looked like he wanted to.
It's a memory of my grandfather that I go back to with unalloyed happiness. The perfect game. I was a boy, and for a couple of hours, so was he. For a little while.
I can't really bring myself to hate the Yankees. It's personal.