What We're Playing For

Last night's game was just the tonic for a fanbase feeling dyspeptic from frustrated expectations, impending rotation breakdowns, and the prospect of yet another lonely October. Sure, the Yanks won, and that's plenty shitty, but the game felt like it meant something, and that gave me a charge. There's always a little animosity between Toronto and New York (AL), whether because they share a division, or because A-Rod is something less than a gentleman, or because the Hogtowners are trying to shrug off the inferiority complex they covertly direct at Gothamites while prattling on about diversity and cleanliness and relative safety (this, secretly, is kind of nice to see for me, since I grew up in Ottawa and have to endure on an ongoing basis the Sens-Leafs rivalry which is, in the 613 area code, merely the mask applied to Ottawans' hatred of Torontonians and their World Class City status, while Ottawa, nominally the capital of Canada, wallows in cultural provinciality [Jesus, I'm glad I moved out of Ottawa]).

Anyway, what with all the love directed at the Yankee Empire recently, and their now-abandoned ballyard (I was guilty, sure, all that Bronxian smog and grit obscuring my judgment, as well the massive Foster's I was able to track down, but then so too was Lloyd the Barber moved to say a kind word or two), it was nice to be reminded that these are the Yankees, and we hate the Yankees. Last night's game was full of spleen and invective, and it was a hell of a lot more intense than you might expect from two teams in a dogfight for third place. But it was obvious that both teams want to see the other finish in fourth.

So what, I hear you saying. Who cares how far out of the playoffs the Jays finish, the point is that they missed the playoffs -- again. Bullshit, I say. It might be third place, but it's our third place. Now let's take it back.