Circling the Bandwagon

Here we are—June of the 2005 baseball season. If the season ended today neither the Red Sox nor the Yankees would make the playoffs, let alone win their division. The Baltimore Orioles have spoiled the rivaling favorites with one of the best records in the bigs.

So, this season I’m rooting for the Orioles. So far. Though, I’m watching more games on cable, I’ve not committed to buying a hat just quite yet; but that verge is closing. A Marylander who routed for them all growing up, I’ve lived away from home for almost a decade now. I’ve checked into the Orioles from time to time and into baseball during the World Series every fall, but I’ve saved my rooting mostly for the NFL and the March Madness Terps.

The problem I run into is that following the Orioles this year, despite my high school years spent next to John Miller and Joe Angel between AM crackles on the radio and collecting Brady Anderson memorabilia, I’m currently just riding the Orioles bandwagon. And that wouldn’t be a problem, had I not hitched up to the Yankees and the BoSox over the past few years. It’s like praying to the Pope one year and with Jerry Falwell the next.

The Yankees represent America. I remember that series against the D’backs in the 2001 Fall Classic. That torn flag from the World Trade Center waving over Yankee Stadium . . . that eagle flying for pre-game exhibitions . . . that Irish dude risking his lucrative throat to sing “God Bless America” in the October air . . . cheering for baseball to throw our resilience into the satellite televisions of Iran and Afghanistan.

Going to an international church, I’ve heard more than one ungrateful immigrant rail against the pride of Americans, the wealth of Americans, the cultural dominance of Americans. It’s the same bile swashing around in the sports bars and blinking lines of radio talk shows in Milwaukee, Pittsburgh, and (formerly) Montreal. “Those Yankees have an unfair advantage, too much money, too much swagger—an unfair advantage.”

I’m a capitalist. I play Monopoly with a vengeance. I’m a Yankee in both the antebellum and global use of the word. I think those who work hard and amass wealth should be allowed to enjoy it. So, in rooting for the Pinstripes, I’m rooting for the Dow Jones and the dollar, hot dogs and blue jeans, V8’s and Country music.

Contrastively, the Red Sox represent democracy, the little guy, and David running sling-in-hand at Goliath. You have to root for underdogs, and they were the ultimate underdogs. After coming back from down 3-0 in the ALCS last autumn—smashing a curse in the most dramatic, historic way—you had to ride the Vegas wave. The World Series victory over the Cardinals was a foregone conclusion to me. I don’t think I even watched the second and third games, knowing better than Jean Dixon the outcome of the series—tuning into game four only to be able to tell future generations I witnessed it.

When Destiny-with-a-capital-D is pushing and pulling as forcefully apparent as it was on the BoSox idiots, it’s not sacrilege to wear the B or congratulate them from the unheard side of the television. It’s flowing with the karma, the chi, and Fate. Pulling for anything but Fate is futile, almost silly—unless it’s sacrilege for your local team, and only then if they’re not playing against Fate or were eliminated by Fate.

Until this year, and not since 1997, have I as a former Orioles fan ever had to root against Fate. I could root for the American League regardless of it’s representative. I could detach my self from commitment and delve only for the entertainment of the game, the appreciation of the pastime. I was Bob Costas, only without the, “And you have to think that if . . .”

This year, without this luxury and with only a Yankees cap in my closet to represent the MLB, I’ve got to pick a team now and follow it for the season. I’ve already bookmarked the AL East Standings page on my web browser and cast my Oriole-laden All Star ballot. I’ve got a visit to Camden Yards in, too. I’m on my way to fandom.

So, check back with me in November. If I’m wearing a black and orange cap, you’ll know I’m reliving my boyhood and rooting from my heart. Or that the Orioles won the World Series.