Editor's Note: The below-presented commentary was originally submitted to Boston Metro in response to an October 2006 article lamenting the lack of catharsis found in the Tigers' humiliation of the Yankees. The views expressed are not necessarily those of the BLOHARDS. Check that- They are the views of the BLOHARDS; almost to the letter.

Normally, I would be loathe to take issue with someone as eloquent (kudos for “schadenfreud”) and just plain hot as Sarah Green, but I must make an exception in regards to her recent column entitled “Who Are We Gonna Hate Now?” in which she confessed that the Yankees’ recent demise at the hands of the Detroit Tigers left her feeling strangely unsatisfied. Not only did she fail to properly savor the dance of flavors conjured by the Yankees’ fall -- she cited pizza, rather than Chinese, as the food which leaves one feeling empty shortly after it is consumed. That’s just weird. But again, she is very cute (oh, and a devoted Sox fan), so I will not belabor that point.

Perhaps my unique perspective on the Bronx Bombers explains the unbridled schadenfraude I felt at the Yankees’ quick and deliciously ugly implosion in the ALDS. You see, I just spent the past 2.5 years working in Midtown Manhattan -- I escaped only a few weeks ago -- and thus had endured way more than my share of Yankee fans’ hubris. On two separate occasions, NYPD cops threatened to ticket me for wearing my Sox cap. A garbage truck driver gunned his engine (thankfully, he was in neutral) when I passed inches in front of his rig, similarly attired, in a crosswalk. Yes, it was on purpose -- I saw him checking out my lid, and then laughing heartily after I nearly jumped out of my shoes.

The lowest indignity came from two hammered and obnoxious 20-somethings, who started hurling obscenities at me when I had the temerity to root for the Sox during Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS. Well, this may have been Gotham, but it was also my favorite non-Boston bar -- a raucous Irish pub around the corner from my office. This was my house not theirs. These interlopers hailed from one of the “outer boroughs” (they weren’t even Irish, for Gawd’s sake), and possessed an aggressiveness and meanness that contrasted poorly with the polite disdain that the other patrons showed me that evening. I returned fire (verbally) with plenty of gusto, figuring that even Yankee fans would be too stupid to start a fight in a crowded bar full of suits and hefty bouncers. I was wrong. Soon, obscenities turned to shoving, at which point I allowed that perhaps the larger guy’s girlfriend found his drunken machismo to cross the line into the realm of “jackass.” Considering that she stood just two feet away at the time, I guess I should have realized that he would not take kindly to this unsolicited relationship advice. Wham! I get pushed again, only harder this time. Just as I’m weighing whether it’s really worth it to coldcock this mother****** (and the 2-1 ratio of the potential combatants), the bartender shouts: “Okay, out!” What?! It’s only the 6th inning! Papi hasn’t even hit his walk-off yet!

To my utter surprise, the bartender proceeds to toss out the two Yankee pinheads but lets me stay -- notwithstanding the cries from the rest of the crowd that the Red Sox guy should get a game misconduct, too. Luckily, this fine publican refused to cave, apparently due to his discerning eye as to who the real aggressors were. That, plus I had tipped him handsomely throughout the evening. Not only did the Sox win the game, of course -- a cute girl who witnessed the whole thing came over to me afterwards and told me how brave she thought I was. The line between “brave” and “stupid” often blurs, but she gave me her number at the end of the evening, so I’ll defer to her in this instance. Sarah Green may be right that revenge is normally best served cold, but whenever served, it is always sweet. Getting two Yankee Fans tossed from a bar in the heart of Manhattan during a Sox-Yankees playoff game, watching the Old Towne Team come back to win the game in epic fashion, and scoring some digits from a local chick in the process ranks as pretty sweet, indeed.

My searing “Sox fan in New York” experience would not have been complete without Harrison’s Tavern on Amsterdam Avenue, on the Upper West Side. Owned and managed by a Boston expatriate, you needed reservations just to get in the door during the 2004 ALCS. As a well-known haven for other expatriates deep behind enemy lines, nary a Yankees hat nor t-shirt sullied the place. The owner/manager served as his own doorman during games 6 and 7, prowling the sidewalk in full Sox game uniform, right down to the stirrup socks and cleats. What a sight! And the local Fox news crew was there to capture the spraying champagne bottles and dancing on tables after the final out of the series. As I floated over the sidewalk towards the subway, the anticipation nearly killed me: “Wait til I get to the office tomorrow and can tell my Yankee bastard colleagues about my night!”

Speaking of those colleagues, the ribbing was merciless for 2.5 long years. Sure, there was the profound high of October 2004, but I was gleefully reminded of every Sox loss during my time in New York, and I managed to lose two bets -- the winner gets lunch -- over who would finish first in the standings in 2005 and again in 2006. This year, however, I decided to make lemonade out of lemons. I held off on paying up until after the Yankees had lost to the Tigers (by which time I was back in Boston). Mindful that the bet with my former colleague did not specify the venue for the winning lunch, I called the manager of another noted Sox hangout, The Riviera, down in Greenwich Village (a bit nearer to my old office). If that Yankee schmuck was going to eat lunch on me, he was going to do it surrounded by 2004 World Series memorabilia. When I told the manager I needed to buy a $40 gift certificate, and told him what it was for, he said it was on the house. He also agreed to mail it for me, along with write a note informing the recipient that it was a joint gift from Chip Keating and Jim Leyland, the manager of the Detroit Tigers.

Sarah, I will grant you that the Yankees’ demise would have been better had it been at the hands of the Sox, but there’s always next year. In the meantime, there is plenty of joy to be had when the Death Star explodes in spectacular fashion. You just need the right perspective. By the way -- the thing with the girl in New York didn’t work out.

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