For me it was a no-brainer: all the allure. The legendary performances. The mystique. They had it all. Others before me had chosen the opposite. But for me it was my birthright and goddammit if anyone was going to stop me. I was sold. I chose the Yankees.

One of the first books I ever read on my own was a biography, Sultan of Swat, The Life Story of George Herman "Babe" Ruth. It was a picture book with larger than life caricatures and oversized text with simple first grade vocabulary, but it was one of the most influential books of my life. After reading this book I made my first life decision. As it turns out, it was one of the only decisions that I can look back and say without a doubt was the right one. The Yankees were my first true love.

It was the summer of 1984. The biggest problem I had to deal with was the chain popping off of my bicycle. Daily rituals of flipping baseball cards and playing hide-and-go-seek filled my days. The only thing I didn't understand was why everyone in the world wasn't a Yankees' fan. (And by "world" I mean "Long Island," and by "Long Island" I mean "Manchester Boulevard" (the street I grew up on). Then it dawned on me. The Mets were better. The Yankees sucked. All their history -- even the Babe -- was just that: history. The Mets were the now. The Mets were the future. "Jump on now or you'll miss the bandwagon." Everyone loved the Mets: my brothers, my friends, my grandfather. Everyone. How could I be the only Yankee fan? I decided I had to go in alone.

I remember one Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1986. No one was around my house, which was a miracle because I had my five brothers, sister, Mom and Dad, and my grandparents (all Mets fans) living in my house growing up. We only had one television, and I had never had a chance to actually watch a Yankees game. Usually I listened to games on the radio, which had a switch that allowed you to hear what was on television. But that Sunday afternoon I watched. It was amazing. I felt like I was in Yankee Stadium. Right there. Live action. Here's the pitch, the swing, holy cow! The unmistakable voice of "The Scooter" Phil Rizzuto called the play. It was a long drive deep, deep....

"Turn that garbage off and put on the Mets." When my grandfather barked an order, people listened. I changed the channel from WPIX Channel 11 to WWOR Channel 9 where Tom McCarver and Rusty Staub called the Met games. "Why do you bother rooting for the Yankees. You should like a real team like the Mets. They're the only team in town." Pop would say this every time the Mets were on.

Everyone around here knows what happened in the 1986 season, so I won't pick that scab right now. But boy did I hear all about how great the Mets were and how horribly disappointing the Yankees were. Every year they would field a team with perennial All Stars and future Hall of Famers. Players like Dave Winfield, Rickey Henderson, and Don Mattingly. Pitchers like Ron Guidry and Dave Rightetti. These guys were awesome. How could they not win? Every spring training was the promise of this year being the year. (Sound familiar?) But every October I was forced to watch other teams play. From 1980 to 1989, the Yankees had more wins than any team in baseball. But nothing to show for it. They were the best second place team ever. (A title I'm not quite ready to concede to the Sox just yet.) I remained faithful.

The early 90s was more of the same. Second place. Sometimes worse. It wasn't until 1994 that the Yanks were actually, finally, doing it. They were in first place with a double digit lead in the A.L.C. East. That summer it seemed like I watched every game. (I had my own TV by then.) I finally got to see my beloved Yankees on top of the baseball world. Then it happened. The blackest eye baseball has seen since the 1919 Chicago Black Sox threw the World Series. More shameful than "The Hit King" Pete Rose betting on Reds games. It was the 1994 player's strike. I guess it was just never meant to be. I would never get to see the Yankees win it all. You wanna talk about a curse.

1995 brought some promise. The strike was over, and it was the first year the wildcard format was in place. Thank God for that change because we were it. Finally, second place was good enough to make the playoffs, with a commanding 2-0 lead in the five game series, my dog could have died, and I don't think I would have stopped smiling. I was already trying to get tickets at Yankee Stadium for the A.L.C.S. Enter the Seattle Mariners. The Seattle Fucking Mariners. I can't remember them even winning a regular season game, let alone a playoff game. Behind the arm of Randy Johnson, with the offense of Griffey Jr. (Who had a chip on his shoulder from way back when his dad played for the Yanks) and Edgar Martinez, the Mariners were able to rip out my heart, throw it on the ground, and extinguish it like a cigarette butt.

The dejected feeling wasn't overwhelming. I simply said, "Wait 'til next year." And what a year it was. With the likes of Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Paul O'Neill, and Tino Martinez, the Yankees played flawless almost unbeatable baseball. With ex-Mets like David Cone, Doc Gooden, and Darryl Strawberry, victory was even more satisfying. (Ahh, sweet revenge. Take that, Pop!) This was the beginning of the most dominating dynasty in recent history, in any sport, including the L.A. Lakers. And it's not over yet. With the end of the season drawing near, the Yankees seem poised to do it again.

But now I live in Boston, surrounded by Yankee hating Red Sox fans, who for some reason think they have cornered the market on disappointment. The incessant whining of Sox fans might as well be fingernails scratching a chalkboard. Enough already.

Many nights I sit at my favorite watering hole after work with an ice cold Bud Light in one hand and a Marlboro in the other and I watch the ends of Red Sox games. When it seems the game is over in the eighth or ninth and B.Y.K. comes in, I feel the butterflies in the stomachs of Sox fans. Or when Manny doesn't run out a grounder or nonchalants a fly ball, I taste the disgust in my mouth just like Sox fans. It sucks and I know it. As a Yankees' fan, I've been there too.

The Red Sox aren't the only team to spend year after year in a sea of futility. If they sold Yankees Suck shirts in N.Y. in the early 1980s, I would have bought one. Shit. I would have bought seven. One for each day of the week. The Yankees sucked, and everyone knew it. They were the best second place team in baseball. So keep wearing your Yankees Suck shirts and plugging in ihateyankees.com. Keep feeling sorry for yourselves. You get no sympathy from me. While you're drowning in your overflowing pool of self pity, grasping desperately at your bright green lifesaver of envy, I'll be busy watching Yankees games at Joe Sent Me in October. Cheering loudly because I never know when things will revert back to the way they were when I was growing up.