LeBron's Yankee's Cap

Henry Abbott and Buster Olney come to LeBron's defense over his decision to wear a Yankees cap to an Indians playoff game on the grounds that everyone has a right to choose whom to root for. If it were any other baseball team, I'd be with them (as someone who's favorite teams are the Washington Redskins, the Boston Red Sox, the Phoenix Suns, and Oklahoma University football, I'd have to). One can certainly choose to root for a team other than the one that plays in one's current home town. But it's beyond craven to latch onto the dominant dynasty of the day unless you live in the team's area. No one with any character would hop on the bandwagon of the Yankees, the Cowboys, or the Lakers just to gain instant championships; a large part of the reward of having your team rise to the top comes from the fact that you were willing to suffer in the times of suffering. Rooting for any of those three teams, each of which has established all-time dominance in its sport, is the mark of a person of weak moral fiber. Note that the Yankees would've been in embarking on their run of four championships in five years during LeBron's formative years as a fan.

Other than Boston, I have lived in all of the area's where my favorite teams play, and I do not change my favorites to team's from my other homes when the going gets tough. My excuse for the Sox is that I am not one of the lowlifes who latched on during or after '04. I became a fan of baseball for the first time midway through the '01 season, when I was attending OU. I chose the Sox because I knew enough already to hate the Yankees, and their tortured past gave them an attractive air of tragedy.

2001 was the year when Pedro first got hurt, Manny checked his mind out for the first time, and Jimy Williams performed badly enough to get himself replaced as manager by pitching coach Joe Kerrigan, who sucked even worse and pissed off all the Latino players. Then there was '02, when they performed decently but came up short, and '03, pretty much the most incredibly awful thing that's ever happened to me as a sports fan (and that includes the city of San Antonio). The night that Grady Little threw a molotov cocktail on the franchise, I was watching the game and studying for an exam the next morning with a friend. Needless to say, I could barely concentrate on the history of Japanese culture after the eighth inning. The next day, I took the exam and then drove 45 minutes into Oklahoma City to take the GMAT for entrance into business school. By the time I was done with that, I felt more mentally wiped out than I ever have in my life. I'm surprised I didn't lose my concentration and drive into an overpass column on the way home. I spent the subsequent winter glued to internet updates on the A-Rod trade drama, and I only barely survived the '04 ALCS. So though I never lived in a region teeming with neurotic baseball obsessors, I feel like I paid some dues.