Baseball is Back! And I Want to Physically Harm Red Sox Fans

Let me start off by saying this: I am a Yankees fan. Sure, it might make some of you want to stop reading right now. It may disgust you that I even dare utter a bad thing about your beloved Red Sox, but let me ask you this: is 27 not a greater number than 9?

But besides that, and arguably more important, I live right next to Kenmore. So not only do I have to hear about the silly Red Sox, I have to come face-to-face with the team’s fans every time I want to go to class. Or when I’m on my way back from work. Or whenever I breathe outside of my building. I cannot escape them. 

Last week, I finally snapped.

I don’t remember how it started, and I certainly don’t remember how it ended. What I remember is a little boy. He was innocent, a casualty of the war his parents started when they put a Red Sox hat meant for an adult on his little head. 

One minute, I was getting off of the T, the next minute I’m tripping over the previously mentioned hat. And then all I saw was red. And white. And a blurry image of a sock.

When I woke up from my daze I was in my dorm. I didn't realize what I had done until I saw news footage the next day.

Here’s what happened: I kicked the kid. I’m not proud of what I did, but you have to remember that I did what I did in a blind rage. I wasn’t myself. He flew back into the train right before the doors closed, and away it went. His parents were in tears.

Naturally, bystanders came after me. But my one year of Taekwondo during elementary school had prepared me for this. Sure, I never made it past a yellow belt, but it didn’t matter. Soon my lanyard became a weapon, and whoever came in contact with the business end was sure to meet a sorry fate. There is nothing more lethal (or heavy) than whatever is connected to a bisexual’s lanyard. 

I stepped on, kicked, and shoved people. I somehow left Kenmore without a scratch. I now have a cult following of Yankees fans living in Boston. I am their god. 

But I don’t want any of it. I’m scared to leave my room. What if I see a Red Sox jersey? Then what? 

And maybe some of them deserved to face my wrath that fateful day. They’re brash, loud, disrespectful, and all-around unpleasant. Maybe I taught them a lesson that day.

My crimes against Red Sox fans have been severe, but at least it means they’re too scared to commute to their games using the MBTA. Kenmore is unsoiled… for now.