Life isn’t easy.

You work your #### off. Your bills are too high. Your credit card company has you on speed dial. Your bank apparently makes up new fees just for you. You haven’t gotten laid in four weeks, but you’ve been laid off twice in four years. Your car is a homing beacon for meter maids.

And to top it off, you live in the city that’s home to your baseball team’s rival.

Oh wait, that’s my life.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Boston. It’s way better than New York. Boston has big-city culture with a small town feel. New York is… well, New York.

So my baseball team plays about three hundred miles to the southwest, and I spend my days living behind enemy lines. I’d say it only matters during the season, but when it comes to baseball, there’s no such thing as an off-season in Boston.

Sure, there are worse things I could be than a Yanks fan. In fact, in Boston, the “most hated people” list looks something like this:

1. Sex offenders
2. Murderers
3. Yankee fans
4. Terrorists
5. Common criminals

I wish I was kidding. But actual blood relatives of Osama bin Laden live here. And no one really seems to mind.

Yankee fans? We’re not welcome. Maybe it’s because it is the best rivalry in sport and the tension is infectious, or maybe it’s because Yankees fans rubbed in 86 years of futility just a little too hard. (Guilty!)

When I tell a Bostonian that I’m a Yanks fan, a look crosses their face like someone took a #### in their shoe. I’ve literally had girls in bars turn around and walk away. (I tell myself it’s because I’m a Yanks fan, anyway…)

They don’t take kindly to my folk in these parts. Especially not at Fenway.

It is a cathedral, a living homage to the talent, passion and skill of some of the greatest players ever to walk on this planet. In the same way I like Boston more than New York, I like Fenway more than Yankee Stadium, if only slightly. It is more unique, has a little more character. And it’s smaller, which makes it, ironically, more intimidating. Like you packed 38,000 friends into your living room to watch the game in HD.

It may be a cathedral, but the language at Fenway would make a priest’s ears bleed.

I’ve gone to a lot of Yankee games at Fenway, and I think I’ve attended just about all of them clad in some kind of Yankees gear. I’ll do the same when the Yanks come to Boston for the second time after what Joe Torre called “a taste” earlier in the month.

Even though I write for one of the few publications that wouldn’t censor anything I wrote—in fact, David Portnoy, the managing editor, told me, “There’s nothing that can’t be published in Barstool”—I won’t reprint some of the names I’ve been called. (One rhymes with “bunt” and another with “mucking grassnole”)

Of course, I could deserve it. I’m the kind of guy that bought a Rodriguez shirt after the Sox failed to sign him a few years ago, and promptly wore it to the first Yanks game at Fenway.

Amazingly, I’ve never gotten into a fight while at a Yankees game—I’m not stupid enough for that—because I know that it’s possible to cheer for a team without being a complete ####, something that more than a few sports fans don’t seem to grasp. But I also follow a few simple rules that are essential to surviving the bleachers while wearing Yankees gear:

1. Wear a shirt, not a hat. You wear a hat, you’ll never see it again, and you’ll probably end up in handcuffs if you try to get it back.
2. Don’t look anyone in the eye. Seriously, treat fans in the bleachers like you would a #### in the wild. In fact, don’t look at or talk to anyone.
3. When the Yanks do something good, don’t jump up and down. Unless you’re a girl with big jubblies, which I decidedly am not. You can clap and cheer, just don’t overdo it.
4. If you yell at a player, it had better be a Yankee.

I do a lot of that last one. I’m what you could call a high-demand fan. If you put on the Yankee uniform, you had better be good. I do expect to win, and every game. I know it’s not possible, but there isn’t a team top-to-bottom that has more talent on the roster, so I expect to win. And when my team sucks I’m pretty damn vocal about it. (If only my TV could talk.)

You have any idea how frustrating it is to not cheer out loud when your team does well? Let me tell you: it sucks.

But I love the game and my team, so I’m willing to hold back, and risk possible mental abuse and bodily harm to watch my team play, even if it means I’m surrounded by angry gorillas (and I seriously mean that in a “respect” way—it’s your job to make Fenway inhospitable… I just wish it was more about the actual players and not about the fans.). It makes life interesting, and makes me a better fan. I can probably tell you as much about the Sox as you can, and definitely can tell you more about the Yankees, because that’s how I’ll get your respect.

There’s nothing like walking into Fenway with a Yankees jersey on. I’m a little kid at heart, so I love any stadium. But when you do it like that, it’s an adrenaline rush. You’re the enemy. My buddy Tim—a Sox fan—and I went down to New York last year for the September series, three games of Yanks and Sox. The first day, he didn’t wear his Sox stuff. He was unsure of the reception he’d get. I kidded him about it, but I could understand. The next night he wore it, and got some choice words shouted in his direction. “I know how you feel,” he said. Good times.

But it also matters what jersey you have on. I wouldn’t wear a Jeter shirt, even though he’s the player the team counts on the most. Jeter shirts are for chicks. I also don’t want to hear “Jeter sucks” a million times. Damon, also for chicks. I wouldn’t wear a Randy Johnson shirt, because I just don’t like him. Matsui’s on the DL for three months. And I have retired the Rodriguez jersey, because quite frankly, until he does something in the postseason, he doesn’t deserve my praise or my loyalty.

I thought about the Rivera shirt maybe, because the last player who will ever wear #42 is also the best closer of all time. But instead, I’ll be clad in my #23 Mattingly shirt when I climb those steps to the top of the bleachers. I’m gonna go old school. As a Sox fan told me one time I wore it in the bleachers, “If you don’t like Donnie Baseball, you don’t like baseball.”

I guess Sox fans do know a thing or two about the Yankees, after all.

With the 2006 edition of the best rivalry in sports already underway by the time you read this, I thought I’d lay down some betting odds for the Sox and Yanks this season.

Johnny Damon gets booed in his first game at Fenway

Odds: OFF

Assessment: This has already happened by the time you read this. I just wanted to get started with a sure thing.

Curt Schilling’s other ankle bleeds

Odds: 50 to 1

Assessment: Seeing as how the devil has not come to collect on the pact Curt must have made with him during the 2004 season, I’m guessing he just might be getting old.

Alex Rodriguez comes out of the closet

Odds: 18 to 1

Assessment: I’m a Yankees fan, and even I have my doubts.

David Ortiz wins a game with a walk off

Odds: 5 to 1

Assessment: Oh, how I long for the day when Joe Torre realizes that you should not pitch to David Ortiz under any circumstances. Honestly, the only reason David Ortiz has as many game winning hits as he does is because MLB managers are apparently idiots. I’d take my chances with Manny.

The Red Sox start handing out Viagra in the dugout

Odds: 500 to 1

Assessment: In a desperate attempt to make the offense more potent, Sox management starts… well, you get it.

Manny washes his hair

Odds: 15 to 1

Assessment: Seriously, I can smell it through the TV.

The NY Post publishes an article that Randy Johnson is actually a corpse

Odds: 1,000 to 1

Assessment: Either that, or Joe Torre brings the geriatric lefty out to the mound in a wheelchair.

Kyle Farnsworth puts a two foot hole in Jorge Posada

Odds: 10 to 1

Assessment: The Yanks middle reliever regularly hits 100 on the radar gun. Pure gas.

Mariano Rivera blows a save

Odds: 6 to 1

Assessment: I’m not about to say that the Sox have his number, but he hasn’t been the same against the Sox since 2004.

John Papelbon grows dreads

Odds: 5 to 1

Assessment: With the Wild Thing Mohawk under his belt, he moves on to pick up the slack left by “Brandon” Arroyo as the token white guy with nappy hair.

Gary Sheffield finally snaps and kills a fan during a game

Odds: 25 to 1

Assessment: Gary Sheffield’s brain is like that creaky, boarded up dock on a ####y lake. All it takes is one #### who takes a wrong step.

Alex Rodriguez gets a two out RBI hit in the late innings to win a game

Odds: 10 billion to 1

Assessment: Alex is the first guy to have 130+ RBI without ever getting a hit with men on base.

A Yankees baserunner gets caught in a rundown

Odds: 7 to 1

Assessment: Thanks to the MLB Extra Innings Package, I’ve been able to watch the Yankees attempt to break the record for most run-downs in the month of April.

Josh Beckett becomes the next Carl Pavano

Odds: 22 to 1

Assessment: Despite the early season results, Pavano’s numbers were better than Beckett’s when he came over to the AL. I’m just saying.

The Yankees Suck chant will be recorded by the Hall of Fame and get its own exhibition as the “Dumbest Chant in the History of Sports”

Odds: 8 to 1

Assessment: I can only wish.

There will be a bench clearing brawl

Odds: 4 to 1

Assessment: Did the World Baseball Classic make these guys best friends? Or do they still dislike each other? We’ll see how things go when tension gets high. But I want a brawl to happen just to watch Johnny Damon wander around like a confused, lost child.

The teams will combine to set a season record for most men left in scoring position

Odds: 9 to 1

Assessment: If the early season trend continues, the odds on this will be a lot lower soon.

Roger Clemens will pitch for the Yankees

Odds: 3 to 1

Assessment: Honestly, if both teams are in contention, it’s going to be all about the money. And when that happens, you know who wins.

FOX Sports will still run Babe Ruth stories

Odds: 5 to 1

Assessment: I don’t think any other network has been hit harder by the 04 Sox Championship than Fox. I mean, after they won, someone had to teach Jeannie Zelasko a new baseball story. This was all she had.

We’ll see that 2K6 Sports commercial with Jeter and Beckett 1,000 times

Odds: 2 to 1

Assessment: Cool commercial. I like it. But after a whole season of it, I’m going to want both those guys dead.

Derek Jeter will make an amazing play

Odds: OFF

Assessment: Remember when he dove into the stands for a foul ball two years ago while Nomar moped in the dugout? Sox fans can say whatever they want about Jeter (and they do) but at the end of the day, he’s just one of those guys who has “it” and any manager would love to have him.

The Yankees win the division

Odds: 2 to 1

Assessment: Nine years in a row.

Right now, in terms of sports, Boston is a baseball city that loves football, likes basketball, and used to watch some sport on ice whose name I can’t remember.

But once a year a fifth sport pushes all of those into the background. Indeed, it’s the only day between the first pitch at Fenway through the last pitch of the season—usually at Yankee Stadium, until last year—that the Red Sox ever play second fiddle to another sporting event in Boston.

It happens on the third Monday in April, and the event is the Boston Marathon.

This year welcomed the 110th running of the country’s oldest road race. With three SuperBowl championship rallys and a Red Sox World Championship Parade in the past four years, perhaps there is no city more trained in how to line the streets to cheer for their Champions.

For those events, they got the practice needed from the annual Marathon. And the cheers are no less audible for the Marathoners as they cruise past the police barricades. Maybe we don’t know their names—or just can’t pronounce them—but Boston loves its champions, and Bostonians know the brave souls who punish their bodies for during this grueling event—thousands of whom have no hope of a prize—deserve the same hero worship accorded to the Schillings and Bradys of this world.

Every year 20,000 people descend on the small town of Hopkinton, Mass., to begin the 26.2 mile sojourn through the Boston suburbs, struggling up Heartbreak Hill, feeling the fires (in their legs) of Hell’s Alley, basking in the glow of the coeds at Wellsey—who solicit kisses from the runners, which reminds me I need to start training—until finally crossing the blue stripe marking the Finish Line in front of another Boston institution, the Public Library, on Boylston Street.

And every year, some 500,000 spectators turn out to cheer for these super-humans, and we think to ourselves, “I can do that… I’m going to start training for next year.” And then we empty our red plastic cup of its beer, polish off the end of our fourth hot dog, and think to ourselves… “Yeah… Next year.”

It’s such a Boston institution, that it’s an official public holiday in the Commonwealth. Its real name is Patriot’s Day, not for the football team, but for the real heroes, the men and women who provide the blanket of security that make our freedom possible. But, with as much respect to them as one person can give, I have to say the better name for it is what the local sports anchors call it: Marathon Monday.

There’s a Red Sox game, sure, but with the exception of the 35,000 at Fenway, there aren’t a lot of people watching. You'll never be asked, "What's the score" so many times in your life. The Marathon takes center stage this day. (That, and the pre-marathon “warm up” parties.) But the city celebrates in grand style, even launching two F-16 fighters to signal the start of the race. They head from Hopkinton to Fenway, and you’ve never heard a crowd cheer so loud as when they go screaming overhead… because that’s the coolest way imaginable to tell 35,000 people that the day’s signature event has started.

Why the glory? Perhaps because the Marathon is also one of the few sporting events where average Joes and Janes can compete on the same course as the sports’ greats. The 26.2 mile course is no different if you’re an unprecedented 4-time champion like Catherine Ndereba of Kenya, longtime staple and two-time winner Johnny Kelly (who passed away last year), or a regular guy like Nicholas Giordano of Malden, Mass, who proposed to his girlfriend Debbie Arduino of Plainville, Mass, after they crossed the finish line.

As I watch these people run, I can’t help but be amazed at their stupidity bravery. I wonder if they know the history of the Marathon—and why we even call it that. And I think that if they did, they’d be a lot less likely to compete in it.

It started with a man named Pheidippides (and you thought Catherine Ndereba has it rough). A soldier in the Greek Army in 490 B.C., he was anointed with the task of bringing word to the capital of Athens that the Greeks had defeated their rivals, the Persians, in the town of—you guessed it—Marathon. Pheidippides took off at a sprint, likely wearing no shoes... because back then, Nike was a God and not something you stuck your smelly foot in.

A little over 26 miles later, he reached the gates of Athens. Pheidippides sucked in what little wind he could muster and pronounced a single word: Nikki.

Victory.

And then he died. Dropped dead. Like a sack of fatty potatoes.

So every time I watch these Catherines and Johnnys and Joes and Janes, I can’t help but wonder if they know that story. If they don’t, I think that maybe ignorance is bliss. But if they do, I think that they’re even more deserving of my praise, and that’s why I’m happy to line the barricades and cheer them on, doing my part to celebrate their personal niki, clapping as loud as I can.

As soon as I finish this hot dog.

Originally posted 4/7/05

Mariano Rivera blew his first two save appearances of the year, both against the Red Sox. Of course, he also blew two in a row when it mattered most, last postseason, and the Red Sox ability to get to Rivera was an essential part of the Sox claiming the World Championship title for the first time in 86 years.

When Mariano was in the process of blowing his fourth consecutive save against the Sox yesterday, the fans in Yankee stadium committed the ultimate sin when they voiced their displeasure with the Yankee closer and booed him.

In the words of WEEI announcer and long-time Red Sox play-by-play man Joe Castiglione, “That is something I never thought I'd hear.”

I couldn't agree more.

There are times, as a fan, when you are ashamed of those who share you allegiance. Every “true” fan knows this displeasure, this discomfort. For Red Sox fans, it often happens when the bleachers burst out into their predictable “Yankees Suck” chant, which is annoying to any educated fan on a good day, but even worse because at this particular ballgame the Sox happen to be facing... the A's. Or maybe it's when those hot chicks wear their “pink” B hats to the Pink Sox games. (Okay, that last one is easier to forgive when she's also wearing the child-size Trot Nixon jersey.)

But yesterday was my day to feel that shame.

Last year, when El Capitan started the season hitting a measly .171 in April, the Yankee “faithful” started down the path of unrighteousness by booing the Lord of the Pinstripes, Derek Jeter. They booed the franchise. Unthinkable. I cringed.

But by booing Mariano Rivera, they've crossed the ultimate line.

For the better part of 8 years now, Yankee fans have enjoyed something that no other fan in baseball, and possibly no other fan in any sport have enjoyed. They had a player on their team who could change the game. You could argue that Rivera changed the game of baseball in a way no other player in any sport in recent history—not even Jordan—could. He physically shortened it. For the last 8 years, every Yankee game in which they led was 8 innings long.

For years, I've watched the Clemenses and Mussinas of the world hand tenuous one and two run leads over to the Mike Stantons and Gabe Whites of the world, and I'd stare nervously at the innings and outs as they ticked away. At the start of the 8th I'd look hopefully toward the bullpen, waiting for a skinny Panamanian emblazoned with a number 42 to rise off the bench and start throwing. And I'd breathe a sigh of relief when the last out in the 8th was recorded. Because then I knew one thing to be true:

Game. Over.

And it was that simple. No, he didn't save them all, but it was item one on Sportscenter when he missed the mark. That sort of luxury should never be accorded to any fan. It breeds complacency. And yet I hope every fan out there gets to know what it's like at some point. He shortened the game in a way no other player ever has.

If you want to talk about the guys who changed the game, the Ruths and the Williamses, the Youngs and the Ryans, you'd be cheating yourself—and the game—if you didn't mention Rivera. Guys like Gagne and Smoltz have shown their potential, and there may be one or two guys who are better than Rivera today, but for all the doubters out there, I want you to read the following words very closely:

Best. Closer. Ever.

The closer position hasn't been around for very long in the scheme of things, but baseball, like everything great about America, is constantly changing while adhering to a long-standing tradition. I'm not going to crunch the numbers, because there's no need, really. You can toss around stats like most postseason saves ever, lowest postseason ERA ever, most saves over X number of years, but I don't need numbers to know that I could go to bed at the end of the 8th, get up for school or work the next morning, and not even bother to check the boxscore. There was no need. Game. Over. (Not that I went to bed then, because I loved watching him embarrass opposing hitters. But I could have.)

I'll say this honestly and I truly believe it: If Rivera blows 25 saves this year, if the Yankees lose 50 games because of him, I hope to God Torre keeps trotting him out there every day, if for no other reason than I know I've been given another chance to watch one of the greatest players in the history of the game stand on that mound for another day.

Have I had my foundation shaken? Yes. I'm dealing with this the same way as when I was a child and I found out Santa Claus was my mother, and they same way as an adult, I dealing with knowing there's no way I'll ever have a #### with Mary Kate and Ashley.

Just like parenthood, there are no laws limiting who can be a fan. There's no test to let you into the club. No guidebook, no rulebook. But if there was, this would be somewhere on the first page:

You don't boo the Great Ones.

For all you Yankees fans who booed Mariano yesterday, I ask you this: If Ruth or Gehrig showed up at the Stadium tomorrow and went 0-4, would you boo them?

If you're a true fan of the game, you know the answer to that. But if you give the other response?

Then you I brand unworthy, you I mark with the scarlet letter of fandom: I call you “fair-weather.”

Mariano, you're our guy. Our 8-inning maker. Our Closer.

And the Best. Closer. Ever.

You don't boo the Great Ones.