With just a week left in baseball season, my adopted home city of Philadelphia is agog at the propsect that the Phillies may, for the first time since 1993, make a post-season appearance. With slugger Ryan Howard leading the way, the Phils just may squeak into the playoffs. But given this teams ability to choke, I don’t think there’s a Philadelphian anywhere willing to bet their house on a post-season spot.
Despite the fact that Philadelphia is now my home and the Phillies are officially my adopted National League team, as an ex-pat New Yorker, the Yankees run in my blood. I will admit a strong distaste of all things Steinbrenner (his reinstatement to baseball after a lifetime ban sent Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis spinning in his grave), and I think Steinbrenner has, followed by a bunch of spineless owners, commissioners, and even player reps, weakened the game, squandered the faith in baseball of many a young American boy and girl, and may also be responsible for the ozone hole. But history–having shared almost four decades of rooting for great players like Munson, Mattingly, and Williams with my dad–keeps me coming back for more.
So what more proof do you need than that of a bloodline to show you how deeply ingrained the Yankees are. I may become a Phillies fan, but the red and white will always mingle with Yankee’s pinstripes. Below is a photo of our baby-to-be’s ultrasound. Yea, the nose gives it away. But the hat helps too.