Confessions of a Serial Swooper

My Husband grew up in Connecticut.  In the “closer to NY” part of Connecticut, not the “Red Sox Nation” part of Connecticut.   He’s a Yankees fan.  A big Yankees fan.  But, he’s a baseball fan in the larger sense as well, so while he knows and loves the Yankees more than other teams, he could probably give you the line up of many other teams in the league and certainly provide details on any other team in the Yankees division.   But, usually, he’s reasonable about it.  He can have an intelligent conversation with any good fan of another team in which he will happily discuss the merits and troubles of each other’s teams without animosity.  Simply, as fellow sports fans.

When our sons were born, I know that Husband looked forward to teaching them his beloved game.  Teaching them how to throw and hit and be good sports.  And, raising them to love the Yankees.  And, they do.   They wear #2 t-shirts with pride.  Big Brother knows all the ridiculous monikers shouted out after a home run by radio-guy John Sterling.  An A-bomb!  From A-rod!

But, it hasn’t been an easy path for Husband.   We live just north of Boston in what is clearly Red Sox territory.  When we lived here five years ago, before the Red Sox had won a World Series, Husband couldn’t wear his Yankees hat in public without having people make snide remarks as he walked by.  He’d grit his teeth and smile as a bartender made a crack about not wanting to serve him.  Our town Little League actually had to get rid of the “Yankees” name for one of the teams because 6 and 7-year-old kids were getting booed at the town parade.  Pretty childish behavior by Sox fans, of course.  But, maybe (maybe) a little understandable as the Sox had been thwarted by the Yankees countless times.  And, it hurt.

When we moved back here about a year and a half ago, the Red Sox had won not just one but two championships.   And, for the most part, it changed people around here.  Sure, Husband will still get the occasional comment but it’s nothing like it used to be.   The hat gets worn again, the boys wear their shirts and things are fine.  Mostly, people keep opinions to themselves.   I mean, it’s not like they’re wearing anti-Red Sox things, right?

And, it’s not like someone would verbally assault a child, with their anti-Yankees rage.  Right?

Wrong.

I’ve written before about how Little Brother and I take a twice-weekly pilgrimage to Dunkin’ Donuts after Big Brother is dropped at school.   Today, LB was wearing his Yankees sweatshirt.

He was also wearing light blue shorts and carrying a little plastic light-up cow on a key chain.  He was wearing his tiny Crocs with Tigger and Pooh Jibbitz on the toes.   He was clutching my hand because, although I would have carried him, he wanted to walk in on his own.   “I do it, Mommy.”

We were trying to work our way through the double doors.  Walking and weaving our way through bustling 8:45 am DD traffic.  Trying to politely hold open the first set of doors for an older woman before we made our way through the second set of doors.

That’s when we saw her.  She was behind that second set of doors.  She looked like she was about to charge out, which could have resulted in Little Brother getting clobbered by the swinging door before him.   I quickly pulled him back.   But, she stopped, looked at us and waited on the other side of the door.  I smiled gratefully through the glass.

Then she said, as we opened and began to walk through the door…

“I wouldn’t have hit him.  At least, I wouldn’t have hit him until I saw that Yankees sweatshirt.”

Um.

What?!  Did you seriously just say that?  You reconsidered hitting him?  He’s TWO, you ignorant moron.

I wish I’d said it.  Said something at least.

Because it’s one thing to act like a brainless, bitter idiot when you’re dealing with my Husband.

But, my kids?!    So. not. funny.

I’m still seething.

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