Confessions of a She-Fan (4 page)

The Yankees fly to Chicago
for three against the White Sox. The May 15 game is rained out. We split a doubleheader against them the next day, then lose the finale on the 17th. There is no excuse for dropping two of three to the 2007 White Sox, a team that bears no resemblance to the 2005 World Series champions. They are even more pathetic than we are, and yet we can't seem to beat the fucking shit out of those cocksuckers.

And it gets worse. Our first interleague series of the season pits us against the Mets at Shea.

We lose game one on Friday night despite Pettitte's solid outing.

We lose game two on Saturday night despite A-Rod's homer. Cano's three errors don't help. Neither does the fact that Darrell Rasner only pitches to two batters before breaking his index finger.

It is this particular game that unravels me. In the fourth inning, I explode in frustration—I want to rip the plasma screen off the wall. I start flinging objects everywhere—the TV remote, a copy of Newsweek, a hunk of Gorgonzola from my Cobb salad. The cheese lands in Michael's beard and nests there.

“What's the matter with you!” he shouts. “You're being a complete asshole!”

“It's the Yankees' fault.”

I
am
being an asshole. But I feel betrayed by these 2007 Yankees. They are pretenders, not contenders. I am spending my days and nights watching these clowns, and for what? So they can keep me from writing my novel, which is how I earn my living? So they can ruin my social life, which I no longer have since I traded dinners out with friends for turkey burgers with the YES Network? So they can create tension in my marriage, which is now on shaky ground because I have been driven to throwing hunks of cheese at my husband?

I sit quietly, like a good girl, and watch the rest of the game. I am the model of decorum—until the Mets start high-fiving each other.

“That's it!” I stand and face Michael, who is skimming through the latest issue of
WoodenBoat
. If he were a real Yankee fan instead of the Connecticut-born Red Sox fan I suspect him of being, he would be throwing cheese, too.

“What's ‘it'?”

“My relationship with the Yankees. It's over. I'm done with their injuries and their excuses and their dysfunctions. I'm divorcing them.”

This gets his attention. “You don't mean it. You'll be back tomorrow.”

“I will not be back. I am suing them for divorce. Mental cruelty.”

He laughs. “Divorcing a baseball team—that's funny.”

I can still hear him snickering as I storm down the hall into my office.

I plop down at the computer, open the Word program on my MacBook, and begin a new document. I am in a fury, my fingers flying across the keyboard. If smoke really came out of people's ears when they were fired up, it would be coming out of mine.

“I am no stranger to divorce,” I write. “I thought I was over that particular brand of heartbreak, but now I am divorcing the New York Yankees—all 25 men on the active roster, in addition to the manager, the coaches, and the general manager. Oh, and the trainer, too. And, of course, the owner and all his baseball people. I made a commitment to these guys and they betrayed me.”

I go on to explain why I am cutting the Yankees loose and how I just might throw my affection to the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. When I finish venting, my eyes light on the
New York
Times sports section on my desk—on a column by Harvey Araton. His e-mail address is right there at the end of the piece. I don't know him and he doesn't know me, but what the hell, I think. I like his stuff.
Maybe he will like mine. I configure my divorce essay into an e-mail to him and hit “send.” I sit back in my chair and exhale.

I continue to watch the games but with a definite detachment, as if I am legally separated and just waiting for the paperwork. On Sunday the Yankees salvage the series against the Mets by beating them 6–2. Our latest rookie starter is named Tyler Clippard, and he looks too young to drive a car. He is the beneficiary of homers by A-Rod, Jeter, and Posada, the only three Yankees in the lineup who are hitting.

The Red Sux are so familiar to me
at this point that it feels like incest. Thanks to the relentless close-ups you get on Fox, I can count Kevin Youkilis's nose hairs.

We actually beat them in Monday's opener on the 21st. Wang pitches really well, and A-Rod homers for the third straight game.

On the 22nd it is back to losing hell. Mussina is just—well, he is hopeless. He is supposed to give us a quality start, and instead he gives them seven runs. The good news is that I get an e-mail from Harvey Araton! He says he enjoyed my “tale of betrayal” and passed it on to Tom Jolly, the editor of the
Times
' sports section. I am about to rush into the living room to tell Michael when I notice another e-mail in my in-box. It is from Tom Jolly! He says he will definitely find a place for my essay in Sunday's paper, provided the Yankees don't go on a winning streak.

“We have to root against the Yankees until Sunday!” I tell Michael.

“So you'd sell them out for a chance to be in the
Times
?”

“Yes,” I say, “I would.”

We beat Boston in the finale on Wednesday, and I am nervous that my article will not run on Sunday after all. We hammer Schilling, and Pettitte pitches a beauty. Rotten luck.

But then the Angels arrive for a weekend series, and I know my essay is as good as published. The Yankees are allergic to the rationalizes our dismal record against them with sound bites like “They always play us tough.” But the truth is the Yankees always spaz out against them. “Figgy.” “Vladie.” “K-Rod.” Give me a break.

The three games this weekend go exactly the way I expected.

We lose game one on Friday night. A-Rod hits his 19th homer, but the bullpen is horrendous, giving up seven runs in two innings.

We lose game two on Saturday afternoon. Wang throws eight solid innings, but our bats need Viagra. I get an e-mail from a copy editor at the Times saying that since the Yankees have cooperated and lost two in a row, my divorce story will run the next day. I also get an e-mail from Richard Sandomir, who covers the media and business scene for the
Times
' sports section.

“I sneaked an early peek at your essay, and I think it's terrific,” he writes. “I'm hoping the Boss reads it and offers you some alimony.”

Game three on Sunday completes the Angels' sweep. Mussina does his job, but Proctor can't record an out in the seventh. My divorce piece runs in today's
New York Times
, so I am much too excited to care. The
Times
places the essay on the section's back page and adorns it with a clever illustration showing a woman sawing herself free of a ball and chain—a ball with the Yankees' logo on it.

The huge response to the piece stuns me. I have a Web site that promotes my novels, but I didn't expect the
Times
' readers to seek it out.

There are supportive e-mails from other Yankee She-Fans. Like the one from Evalyn, who writes, “Only another female can understand the emotional attachment we have to the team.”

There are funny e-mails from people I grew up with but have not seen in years. Like the one from Ken, who writes, “As I read your article, I recalled our trip to Yankee Stadium when the Mick had 499 home runs and we were hoping
we'd see number 500. I certainly remember that you are as nuts as I am about the Boys in Blue.”

There are interesting e-mails from people I have never met. Like the one from Sandy McCartney, who writes that she, too, lives in Santa Barbara and that her husband is not only a lifelong Yankee fan but also the best friend of Yankees radio broadcaster John Sterling. And the one from Matt Silverman, the president of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, who wants to send me a Devil Rays care package and asks for my home address.

There are smirking e-mails from Red Sox fans. Like the one from John, who writes, “As a lifetime BoSox fan, here's hoping you see the light and join the Nation.”

Most upsetting are the angry e-mails both to me and to the
Times
from Yankee fans that crucify me for being a traitor. Like the one from Stan, who writes, “Too bad Jane Heller has given up on the Yankees. True fans never give up. True fans die harder and root harder. We don't need her.” And the one from Adam, who writes, “It is because of triflers like Jane Heller that Yankee supporters have the bum rap of not being genuine fans of the game of baseball.” And the particularly articulate one from Rob, who writes, “Suck dick you whore.”

I am stung by these vicious e-mails.

“They're questioning your loyalty,” Michael says.

“This has nothing to do with loyalty,” I say. “I wrote an essay about divorcing the Yankees because all the losing has taken an emotional toll on me. You get that better than anyone.”

“Yeah, well, people hate you for being a bandwagon fan.”

My nostrils flare with indignation. It stinks that I am hated by perfect strangers, especially strangers with whom I share a passion. And here is another thing that stinks: People are jumping to conclusions about me. How dare they question my legitimacy as a fan? I am not one of those people who abandoned the Yankees when they were bad. I hung around during the Horace Clarke years and the Mel Hall years and the year that Luis Polonia had sex with that 15-year-old girl in Milwaukee. I was there even when the cokehead Mets were the toast of New York. Sure, I drifted away. I went to college and protested the war in Vietnam and listened to Led Zeppelin. I got married and divorced twice. I launched my career in publishing. I went through periods when I did not follow baseball as obsessively as I do now. But I never stopped rooting for the Yankees, never stopped loving them.

“I am the opposite of a bandwagon fan,” I say, standing up very straight. “And the injustice of it all is infuriating.”

“They're just reacting to what they read in the paper,” says Michael. “They don't know you.”

“Yeah, well, I wish I could show them.”

“Show them what?”

“That I'm the best fan the Yankees have ever had.”