by Michael Allen McCormick

Created on: July 21, 2008   Last Updated: May 20, 2010

Hate is an awfully strong word I rarely find myself using. I would much rather strongly dislike something than hate it. I ask myself the question; Do I really hate the New York Yankees? When the new baseball schedule comes out, I always check to see if my schedule is compatible with seeing them at Safeco field.

I go there expecting to see them beat my Mariners, but I rejoice when they lose, and I cheer whenever they make an error. Maybe that is some kind of a love/hate relationship. That joy I take in going to boo the Yankees must be a form of love for the Yankees. If the Yankees didn't exist, who would I love to hate?

My deepest gut wrenching pangs of hatred for the New York Yankees began when I was a wee little boy back in 1967. Imagine, the excitement of a five year old boy, counting away the days to see a big league baseball game in person at the Big "A" in Anaheim. My Dad had been holding on to these box seat tickets that were a gift from his employer. I impatiently X'ed off the dates on our kitchen calendar until the big day at the Big "A" finally arrived.

It turned out that our seats were in the first row, directly behind the Yankees dugout. There was a place near the end of the dugout where kids were congregating to get autographs before the game. My Dad told me I should go over and see if I could get our program signed. I don't know which Yankee it was, but someone in the crowd insulted him when he told us he had to get ready for the game and could not sign any more autographs. Instead of just going into the dugout, he returned the insult with one of his own. Then someone behind me threw a beer on the player, and he spit a big loogie into the crowd. I was drenched in beer and tobacco juice spit. I went back to my seat also drenched in dissapointment and dissallusion.

The bitter agony of then having to watch the Yankees beat the Angels on a controversial bad call that brought on a chorus of loud echoing boo's was all it took to make me a died-in-the- wool Yankee hater for life.

You might say the Yankees are winners. I say they are an assortment of prima-donnas who underperform for the amount of money they are overpayed. With the great deal of money that George Steinbrenner spends to assemble talent, the thing that money cannot buy is team spirit and a reverence for the beautiful game of baseball. I will take a less talented player who plays with his heart. I will take a less talented player who bonds with his team mates. I will take a

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