State of the Red Sox/Yankees rivalry: report from Fenway Park
Attending the
Boston Red Sox’s
[Red Sox Examiners Dorval, Paicopolos] nervous 6-5 victory over the visiting
New York Yankees [Yankees Examiner] last night afforded good opportunity to gauge the current state of the AL East rivalry. Your humble observer has checked in about this a couple of times already (see articles of
March 13 and
April 23), and while yesterday’s game was a good one – unless you’re a fan of
Chien-Ming Wang, who couldn’t find the plate with a map and compass – it produced virtually none of the on- or off-field contention that we have come to know and love.
For instance, fans wearing Yankee garb went largely undisturbed both on the street outside the park and in the stands inside, and only one fight was seen to have broken out in the bleachers. (And this didn’t occur until the seventh inning!) Furthermore,
Alex Rodriguez was merely jeered, and the required steroids-related chants were relatively muted. The same was largely true for
Mark Teixeira, who has a long way to go to match the derision aimed at, say,
J.D. Drew by Phillies fans for spurning them when it came time to sign a contract.
Johnny Damon, on the other hand, was booed more loudly last night than he was when he first returned to Fenway after signing with the Yankees, and the volume didn’t go down from one at bat to another. I find this embarrassing because he’s been gone for nearly as long as he was here, and of course the Yankees got him the same way the Sox did: by waving piles of Benjamins in front of his nose. Shouldn’t ‘educated’ fans such as ourselves really know better?
Third, the predictable and tired chant of “Yankees S**k!” broke out only a few times and didn’t last long when it did. Perhaps this helps to redeem us in some fashion, for I find the refrain classless and unfunny, except when it breaks out at a Bruins-Canadiens game.
Finally, there’s this:
Nick Swisher is a dirt dog, and I love a dirt dog. In the best tradition of Trot Nixon, he hustles all the time, and he isn’t afraid to sacrifice his body even if he doesn’t make the play. Who cares he badly misjudged a slicing drive into right field last night? Minutes later he dove into the seats near the Pesky Pole in an effort to snare a foul pop. All that could be seen of him were his ankles and shoes hanging over the warning track … and when he emerged, he did so without the ball! So the band played on, and the outcome was as we liked it.
But the intensity of the historic rivalry? Not so much; not last night, at least.
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