It’s time for the Fall Classic, and this year it tramples the Garden State in multiple ways. Growing up in Freehold, NJ, I had the benefit of being located as close to the centroid of the state as you could be. We lived only a few miles from the boundary of the 201 and 609 area codes, a Mason-Dixon line that separated Philadelphia from New York, Tasty Kake from Entenman’s, and pizza from cheesesteaks. The New York-Philadelphia battle lines run deep — it’s not about rivalry or competition, it’s about deep-seated, long-running, geo-politics, with New Jerseyans caught squarely in the cross-hairs, aiding and abetting each side.
Here’s a prime example: During my formative, impressionable pre-teen years, the local Rotary Club would sponsor a father-son trip to a baseball game (it was the 70s, forgive the political incorrectness). For some reason, we’d trek down the Turnpike to Veteran’s Stadium to see the Mets play the Phillies. Never mind that Shea Stadium was closer, and represented the Mets on home turf for displaced Long Islanders in the area. New York for some reason was off-limits: too dangerous, too far, too expensive, too something. So the upper levels of the Vet invited us, took us in, and shielded us from a 2-hour rain delay. In the middle of that weather interruption, I witnessed a fight break out between fans of the opposing teams, resulting in a Mets fan being dangled over the railing until he took back a comment made in haste or hates, depending upon your view. Beer dampened senses (common and otherwise) to the point where nobody would have felt the injuries until the next day. The Mets won, so all was for naught anyway.
Phillies fans are famous for hurling insults and snowballs at Santa Claus. Really. When JD Drew refused to sign with Philadelphia, his first visit to the outfield was punctuated with D-cell batteries. Philadelphia news media celebrated the minimal rioting that came with last year’s World Series trophy.
It’s the City of Brotherly Love only for some definitions of love that involve the home team, home team fans, and their supporters. Don’t cross Philly fans. Do not, under any circumstances, after your wonderful and cannot-be-denied NJ Devils defeat the Flyers to force a Game 7 in the 2000 NHL Conference Finals, after listening to nearly 3 hours of abuse, vulgarity and bodily noises coming from 200 level of the Meadowlands, turn around and holler “Hey Philly fans, bite my dad’s ass!” (Yes, this happened, yes we lived to tell about it, because I think the fact it came from a 6-year old’s mouth shocked everyone enough to give us a 3-step lead down the staris).
I believe that Philadelphia fans are rabid out of a sense of being in a perpetual “not” comparison; they’re not New York; they’re not Pittsburgh; they’re not the nation’s capital (although they were for a while); they’re just consistently belligerent. If Philadelphia is fueled by inferiority, then New York is driven by superiority: how many rings, the new stadium, the excise tax on the baseball payroll, the “world’s most famous arena” (Madison Square Garden), the winningest franchise in sports. The longest game closing call known to man originates from the broadcast booth at Yankees games. Yankees fans set themselves up for abuse; Phillies fans dish it out faster than a cheesesteak at Jim’s on South Street.
Baseball is America’s pastime because it includes, covers, habors and engenders such strong emotions. It’s acceptable to abuse your co-workers, your neighbor, your brother-in-law, just until the final out is made, and you go out for breakfast or lunch the next day and gently tease each other. It’s the basis for movies and television and songs and, well, slices of American life. It’s passion shared and surfaced and played out, each season after the other, a way to mark time without ever growing old.
A kid who used to skate on one of my hockey teams chided Yankees fans earlier today: “You don’t have a game tonight; the team does.” Oh, but fans of both sides have a game tonight. It’s our given right, protected by the Constitution, to enjoy free speech, with some allowance for volume. And anyway, the Red Sox are done for the year. Nah-nah.
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