The New York Yankees. The Boston Red Sox. The "Greatest and most intense rivalry in baseball," courtesy of wikipedia. "Evil Empire" vs. "The Bloody Sock." And me in the middle of it. You see, I am one of a very small and rationalizing minority that can actually say with a straight face that I am a Yankees Red Sox fan. I don't hide it, I don't mince words when I say it, I do so in the pained yet practiced way that a child might try to swallow cough syrup without ever tasting it, knowing that the dreaded aftertaste will soon follow and leave me wishing I had just let myself cough. Sharing my allegiance-confusion with people has never been a positive; the best case scenario is a look of disbelief from most men and a nod of agreement from some girls that I know that good naturedly think that there is an actual baseball team by that name. The majority of people that I have shared that information with respond in a much more negative way; one friend by attempting to kick me out of her apartment, while my girlfriend threatened to break up with me. I can happily say that my girlfriend was able to look past my deficiency and I convinced my other friend that I should stay, probably by waving something shiny or offering to mix her a drink. I am sure you are wondering how an American citizen without the influence of drugs or alcohol could make the claim of being a Yankees Red Sox fan, and I will try my best to outline for you the only way that I know of becoming one, which is of course by being me. It all started when I had the fortune (or misfortune as my girlfriend would say) of being born in the great state of New York, right in the middle of the Capital District. Growing up playing baseball, I was forced to brave a sea of choices and pick the team that best suited me. I took the easiest route I could and instead of braving the ocean and deciding on my own, I stuck to my little harbor and chose what my father liked, the New York Yankees. I didn't want to pick something else for fear of ridicule and excess decision making, so I was happy to fall in line with my father and brother and idly root for the Yankees. My interest grew and I began to actually like them, even before they became the Dynasty. I remember pretending to be asleep as a child, not wanting to leave my room, and my dad would always trick me and have my brother ring the doorbell and tell me Don Mattingly was here to see me. Somehow, even while I knew that he was a celebrity and there was no way he would be here, even with the game on the TV and the image of Don Mattingly at first base, the possibility that it could happen was always forefront in my mind. The excitement that I felt wanting it to be true caused me to jump out of bed and go running to find only my brother laughing at me with the door open and nobody there. There was a slight twist to all this, a loophole that was created as a child and would be exploited as an adult, or else I would always and forever be a Yankees fan and hate the Red Sox. The loophole was created by my uncle, an avid Red Sox fan with a beautiful Boston accent; his brother had a radio show and always had season tickets to the games that he didn't always use. Not having children of his own at that point, my uncle invited us out to see a game and I got to spend an afternoon with him being boisterous and rooting raucously for the Red Sox to defeat my beloved Yankees at Fenway Park. To offset this, my dad took me down to New York City and I saw the rivalry from the New York perspective, thus furthering the identity diffusion that I was stricken with. I even got to see the rivalry down in Florida for Spring Training; I rooted for the Yankees but never too hard. And then, right in the midst of my development, I moved to Maine. I was now in New England, the heart of Red Sox Nation, and all through my teenage years I was forced to lie and tell people that I was a Red Sox lifer and that I had forsaken my childhood team. I knew I liked the Yankees but I had to keep it to myself for fear of being labeled as an outsider. Maine is a tough state to move to- if you were born in New Hampshire, even if you lived all of your life in Maine, people would still consider you an out-of-stater. That label can follow you everywhere, but I was able to minimize its effects by not mentioning my Yankees affiliation and by adopting the New England Patriots as my own, a team that I sincerely cheered for and cared about. (That was possible because of Bill Parcells, as crazy as that sounds-when he left the Giants for the Patriots, my heart left with him, and I have been a fan ever since.) The most difficult thing about this was the timing of it all. If I had moved 6 years later or several years before, I would probably have successfully rehabilitated and become a Red Sox fan and loved it. But I moved in the summer of 1996, just as the Yankees were on the on their way to their first World Series of my existence. The entire time I was enthralled, in a way missing home and cheering for the Yankees because of it. During the playoffs, I believe I can honestly count myself as one of a dozen Yankee fans in the entire state of Maine, not counting a few moose that didn't know any better. The reason this is important was because of the affirmation of my allegiance it caused. A win would produce a feeling of happiness in me; therefore, the Yankees caused me happiness. At the same time, even if I had wanted to root for the Red Sox, each and every time that I tried they lost miserably and it made me associate the Red Sox with losing. I bought into the team at that point; I could have wrestled myself and my heart away from them, allowed myself to take the easy route and just enjoy the Red Sox, but the feeling of despair I got the next year when we didn't win just furthered in me the connection I had with the Yankees. I was not dependent, I was not ignorant or die hard or anything of that nature, I just knew that I enjoyed when the Yankees won. So in 1998, when we again got to the World Series, my dad was able to get my brother and I tickets right in the middle of the die hard fans, the crazy ones out in the left field bleachers. I loved it, the game was great, El Duque pitched amazing, but I could easily see the chasm that separated me from the rest of the fans around me. Where they amused themselves with chanting and hanging an effigy of Kevin Brown, I was happy just watching the game and not clapping, not yelling, just intently thinking about what was going on. I wasn't a fan at all, I didn't blindly dive into the raw emotion that was all around me, instead I would pick and choose what I felt and what I wanted to be a part of. That indecisiveness is what clinched it, even as I knew I was a Yankees fan, there was leeway enough for me to add another team to the end. Yankees Red Sox fan; at that point it didn't quite fit, but a couple more years removed from living in New York, a couple of more years of watching games with my uncle, I came to see it differently. The Yankees got my hopes up, they almost beat the Diamondbacks, but didn't; they almost did a lot of things, but didn't. The almost-victories put them back where the Red Sox had been-I didn't chose either really. I was apathetic, a non-baseball fan, the same kid who once brought a book and read the entire duration of a game in Montreal, missing out on being one of the first to witness Pedro Martinez being a dominant pitcher. In 2003, the rivalry became even more heated, only to end unceremoniously by Aaron Boone, someone my girlfriend still reviles with all of her heart. That ending, and the sadness that came upon the entire campus afterwards; both things affected me. At the same time that I was happy that the Yankees had won, I almost wish the Red Sox had gotten a chance. And then we lost to the Marlins, just like the Diamondbacks, in a Game 7. All the talent that Steinbrenner could purchase did not give us a win, all the heartache I felt when Boston lost I felt again. 2004 was going to be different, 2004 was the year the Red Sox could do no wrong, everyone in New England wrote about how good the Red Sox were and how they were going to finally put their problems behind them; Grady Little was no longer around to keep Pedro out too long, so they were guaranteed a win. During the regular season, they did a good job, but everyone knew it didn't matter; the playoffs were all that mattered. And so we waited, and I finally realized something-I wanted them to win. I wanted them to finally win a championship; I empathized with the average fan and didn't want to see the 1918 sticker on any more cars around here. But by the time they were losing to the Yankees, three games to none, my apathetic nature revealed itself again. Instead of feeling down, I started to realize that maybe, just maybe, being a Yankees fan did not make me spawn of the devil. I could come to grips with it, I could accept myself for who I was, and that seeing us win did in a way make me happy. I wouldn't be "that fan"; I was at a bar when a person broke into cheers for the Yankees when they tore open Game 3, god rest his soul, but I would be the fan that quietly smiled and hoped that nobody saw. And we all know what happened next. Or, in case some of you are like my friend who nodded in agreement, you don't, so I will explain-the Red Sox got their act together, stepped up to the plate and followed Ortiz in winning the next 4 in a row. And here I was, having rooted for them to beat my Yankees yet feeling down about it. I was confused, a mess, a disoriented fan who just didn't want to have a vested interest in anything. But in the World Series, I rooted for the Red Sox, and they rewarded me with a victory. It wasn't as sweet, but it was something. I met my girlfriend last spring, before any rivalry between the two really mattered. By the time she knew that I was a Yankees Red Sox fan, it was too late for her to really do anything-she wasn't going to really break up with me, she just wouldn't tell her mom about it. But then she did, and her whole family accepted me for what I was, or wasn't, and they looked instead to my unwavering loyalty to the Patriots as showing me to be a kindred spirit. In gratitude for her generosity, I have started to lean more and more towards the Red Sox, and right now, I would say I am almost split dead even. Not quite, I still like the Yankees, which is why they come first, but I like the Red Sox quite a bit too. Actually, what I really like about the Red Sox is I admire the way Epstein is building a talent base using the minor leagues, not just throwing money at talented veterans. Boston's payroll is still up there, but they are starting to learn; as good as Johnny Damon is, getting Crisp is a good deal and that mentality will give them a Dynasty soon. The Yankees haven't been a Dynasty since they started buying free agents-they built their Dynasty with young Yankees, guys that came all the way through the system and made it big. Jeter, Williams, Rivera, Pettite. There are more, of course, but the Dynasty itself was forged by people with a common purpose, men who fought together all the way. I hope the Red Sox stick to their strategy; I hope they stay young, or get younger, and let their prospects come up and shine. The fact that it makes me excited gives my girlfriend hope for the future; hope that I can finally feel like she does. But I am still conflicted; I still have wavering loyalty to both teams, and am happy in my decision to split the difference. Oh, did I mention that I like Oakland a lot too?