Yankee fans are a singular tribe. Above – or below – all others we are a driven lot. There are no breaks in the Bronx. No Memorial Day getaways. No vacations. No days at the beach.
Life here isn’t always perfect, but in the summer we play baseball and that’s all that really matters.
People came into our neighborhood over the weekend in crisp red shirts and hats. They were obnoxious and there were fights.
My friend Javier and I faced off with a group of Angels fans yesterday. There were four loud ones behind us who started up in the seventh inning and didn’t quit until the final out when they aimed a racial jab at Derek Jeter.
There is nothing that will touch off a war in the Bronx quicker than a knock on The Captain.
“Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” Javier shot.
“Jeter’s overrated,” one of them giggled as he kicked Javier.
Javier lunged and the giggler crashed back into his seat.
“If you want to step outside we’ll go,” Javier challenged. “There’s four of you and two of us so you might want to go back to Disneyland and get some more guys.”
Javier set his shoulders in a manner that showed he held victory in his fists.
The Angels scattered and Javier carried himself out of The Stadium the same way the Yankees will carry themselves into Toronto: Knowing that victory in their hands and their bats.