Jessai Flores

Last night, the New York Yankees lost the World Series, and I went to sleep with a smile on my face. Not because I love the Los Angeles Dodgers, but because I loathe the Yankees.

Here’s some backstory. Back in the ’40s and ’50s, baseball in New York looked like this: Brooklyn belonged to the Dodgers, the Bronx belonged to the Yankees and the rest of New York either rooted for Manhattan’s New York Giants — yes, the Giants were a baseball team — or teams outside of New York City. My paternal grandfather grew up a Giants fan, while my paternal grandmother grew up a Dodgers fan — both teams were members of the Major League Baseball’s National League, while the Yankees were in the American League. 

By the end of the 1950s, the Giants and the Dodgers had abandoned their fans to move to the West Coast. Their city had gone from three baseball teams to one, and future Mets fans hated the Yankees enough to say no thanks, I’m gonna wait. 

Years later, in 1962, the New York Metropolitans were born, playing in the rundown stadium left by the Giants, wearing blue, the color of the Dodgers, and orange, the color of the Giants. Every fan who had stuck it out and refused to go to the Dark Side became a Mets fan, despite their first season consisting of 120 losses and only 40 wins. The Mets fanbase is steeped in humble beginnings, and being a Mets fan means living with the understanding that you’re going to lose a lot more than you win, and loving the game anyway. Two of those fans were my grandparents, who raised their kids to be all about the Mets.

With only a handful of postseason successes and only two World Series wins in 60 years, Mets fans’ faith has been tested year after year. It’s like the viral video of an interview with a Mets fan from a few years ago; when asked, “What’s the best part of being a Mets fan?” he answered, “The character development.” And when asked, “What’s the worst part about being a Mets fan?” he answered, “Probably May through September,” i.e. the majority of the baseball season. But Mets fans still keep coming back to Citi Field, wearing blue and orange, cheering along with Grimace — the ridiculous purple monster — and holding on for successes like the Mets’ postseason run this fall.

My dad moved to Washington, D.C., in the ’90s and betrayed his family by raising his kids as Washington Nationals fans. However, throughout our childhood, he made it clear to us that hating the Yankees was almost as important as loving the Nats. In fact, whenever my sister and I would say we hated something, like a vegetable or math class, my dad would half-joke, “Hey! In this family we only ‘hate’ mosquitos and the Yankees.” I think my dad would rather I bring home a serial killer than a guy who’s a Yankees fan.

There’s a real basis for this hatred — it’s not just old New York rivalries. Basically, the Yankees franchise is snobby and overly materialistic. I learned how deep the Yankee hate really runs when I was 10 and went to a Nats vs. Yankees game. A few innings in, the Yankees brought on a relief pitcher fresh off a suspension for domestic violence. A couple of innings later, I cheered for the Nats too loud and got cursed out by an old lady decked out in Yankees gear. 

Their official rival is technically the Boston Red Sox, but you don’t have to have anything to do with Boston to know you want the Yankees to lose.

I don’t even attempt to hide my contempt for the Yankees, or stifle my glare when I see people wearing Yankees merch — especially when they are just wearing it because they think it looks cool. That’s why this past week of watching the Yankees get destroyed in the first three games of the World Series has been almost as fun for my family as it would be to watch our own team play for the trophy. 

Now, I’m not crazy about the Dodgers either. Just like the Yankees, they represent everything that’s wrong with baseball: overcommercialization of a game that’s about heart, not flashiness. But there’s also something poetic in the fact that the New York Yankees are facing one of their greatest enemies from the ’50s, a team that used to be their neighbors, and getting absolutely pummeled.

And even though it isn’t my team that will be going home to a World Series parade, I spent last night cheering loudly at every run scored against the Yankees, just like my family has been doing for generations.