It is inbred in every true New Englander. It is uncovered and exposed at around the same age when one learns reading and basic arithmetic. It is a lifelong passion that matters more than family loyalties and friendships. It is Yankee Hatred.
Everyone who has half a brain knows the story. Harry Frazee sells Babe Ruth to the Yankees to finance No No Nanette in 1918. Since then the Yankees have won 26 World Series titles, while the Sox have won a big fat zero. Along with all that Yankees’ success has come Red Sox heartache: Bucky Dent and 1978 one game playoff (preceded by Boston’s infamous September collapse); the 1999 ALCS with Chuck Knoblauch’s “no tag” tag; and, of course, the 1986 World Series and Bill Buckner (that loss was to the New York Mets, but still).
Like any group with an inferiority complex, Red Sox fans revel in Yankee torment and suffer with each Yankee triumph. Chants of “Yankees Suck” may be heard all around the world of sports, made by people rooting against the biggest and best, but only Red Sox fans can do true justice to such a chant. And there is better place to celebrate one’s Yankee hatred than right here at UMass in a little residential area known as Southwest.
As a four-year resident of the area, I’ve learned the ways of the city. When the Red Sox and/or Yankees are in the playoffs, fan rioting is a must. My first experience of this was the improbable come back of the Red Sox vs. the Cleveland Indians in the 1999 ALDS. Winning the best of five series after having been down two games to none, there was a riot attended by hundreds that paraded through campus ending in Southwest, where most of the residents were outside to celebrate. Immediately following that series was a Red Sox fan’s dream: an ALCS game showdown within the Bronx Bombers. Though New York eventually won four games to one, there were some very iffy calls in the first two games, errors that determined the outcome of the game. Such calls led to an even larger gathering in the concrete jungle.
However, Sunday night’s events eclipsed both of those events.
Southwest, for those of you who don’t live here and have never experienced a riot, is perfectly designed for a loud display of Yankee hatred.
The area of the pyramids between John Quincy Adams, John Adams, and Washington, can accommodate crowds of hundreds of people with ease. The towers themselves make excellent birds eye viewing areas. What make a Southwest riot memorable though, are the other little things, mainly flying objects and fire.
The instant Luis Gonzalez hit a bloop single to left Sunday night, people began to congregate outside. At first there were only a hundred or two. Within ten minutes though the size had ballooned to roughly 700 to 800 people. Familiar chants of “[expletive] the Yankees” and “Yankees Suck” echoed among the towers. Toilet paper rained down from JQA and JA, with people launching rolls all over the place. Soon, plain paper was also dropped from JA and Washington, almost like confetti on the celebration below. The fires soon started with the toilet paper being lit. The celebration of the Yankees loss soon spilled into the realm of fire as well when a Derek Jeter poster was torched and a Yankees cap was burned to a crisp.
Sunday, though, the celebration was taken to another level, as many of us learned just how many kids in Southwest are the owners of fireworks. The majority of the explosions were simple firecrackers in the bonfire that had formed in the center of the crowd. Bottle rockets were also launched from a JA lounge, and someone sent a firework off the corner of JQA that looked like it belonged in a fourth of July celebration. The fireworks seemed to touch of a patriotic chord, as screams of “USA” and “[expletive] Bin Laden” were added into the mix of anti-Jeter shouts.
The piece de resistance was still ahead. For just as the fire was beginning to wane, a pair of guys raced to the center with a lounge couch and used it for firewood. The bonfire last night eclipsed the previous best these eyes had seen-a security desk being lit during the famed power outage and fire of April 2000. The couch ablaze was the plateau of the celebration. Soon an official made his way through the crowd and put the couch out, though little of it was left. The police, both on foot and horseback, began to disperse the crowd.
Why does Yankee hatred bring out such energy from people? The reasons I mentioned above are just the most extreme examples. The Yankee luck, or “mystique,” as some New York fans would have you believe, just infuriates fans of other teams who are jealous and envious. Watching Jeter, Alfonso Soriano, Scott Brosius, and the rest of those pinstriped heartbreakers win games three and four in such an unbelievable fashion was too much to take. No team is that fortunate, except of course the Yankees.
Sunday night, though, it was Arizona and a couple of guys named Johnson and Schilling who put an end to the suffering that every Red Sox fan has endured since my freshman year of college. Even if UMass won the NCAA tournament, the group celebration would not be as large as one of the baseball riots, simply for the fact that Yankees hatred runs deep into one’s soul.
I have watched baseball in many different places besides UMass: my home, a friend’s house, a bar, and of course, in person at Fenway Park. Outside of sitting next to the Green Monster, UMass is the next best place to celebrate a Sox win. There is NO better place to celebrate a Yankees’ loss than in the city of Southwest. On Sunday, people were taking pictures and videotaping the celebration. I wish I had a camcorder myself, because even retelling stories of such riots doesn’t do them justice. They truly are a thing of beauty.
Next year will more than likely be my last at UMass. Hopefully, the Red Sox will break their curse then, but I know the odds say otherwise. I will say this though: if the Sox and Yankees ever again meet in the ALCS or, God willing, the Sox actually win another Fall Classic, I will be sure to be here in Southwest, celebrating and chanting along with all the others, expressing from deep within my Boston Pride and Yankee disdain.
