I’d like to tell you all a little story about a boy from Long Island who grew up loving the New York Yankees, and then, just as quickly as he started, stopped. Yeah, that’s right, I’m talking about Patrick DiCaprio’s beloved Bronx Bombers, and I’m talking about turnin’ tail on 100 plus years of legacy, just like that.

How’d it happen? Can I still even call myself a baseball fan after such sacrilege? And if so, why would I reveal such slander on such a reputable and prestigious a fantasy baseball website as FP911? Am I really pressing Pat to cancel my premium subscription? These are all good questions, friends.   Now if you’ll all just calm down a moment, I’ll explain. 

As long as I can remember, I loved the New York Yankees. Born in 1973, I first became aware of baseball through two lenses: the 1978 Yankees championship team and Topps baseball cards. To this day, the memories of each are inseparable. I can still see superstar-celebrity Reggie Jackson hitting bombs in his gold framed shades, or Billy Martin pitching a fit over a close play at first base. Or my personal favorite, in retrospect, the sure-handed second baseman, Willie Randolph, making that effortless throw from second to first base that I never could.

Now 32 years later, I can’t say which memories I truly do recall, and which seem to come from other sources. An amalgam of black and white video clips and bubblegum card snapshots blur together over time. Do I really recall “Louisiana Lightning” Ron Guidry or Rich “Goose” Gossage pitching during that remarkable second straight world championship, or is it Topps and their clever marketing that’s to blame? Or worse, Ken Burns and that damn documentary series from a few years back?

I do know that my sister, Brenda Joy was smitten with shortstop Bucky Dent, and even had a poster of his Scott-Baio-lookin’ ass on the back of her bedroom door. (No comments please) Memory is strange. I can remember that image like it was yesterday, but still can’t recall Bucky’s epic homerun against Boston. Pathetic. I want my brain back.   

But I digress. Whichever memories I experienced firsthand, and whichever were borrowed, I identified myself as a “Yankee Fan” from an early age. I can recall, and have the Polaroid to prove it, receiving a whole Yankee uniform for my 7^th birthday: everything from the hat and jersey to the stirrup-bottomed pants. Aluminum bat in hand, and ready to play deep right field for Fink’s Smoke Shop in Little League, I was beyond content. Adorable or pathetic, you take your pick, but I was a Yankee fan for sure.

As time went on, I stayed with the hometown team (the Mets seemed like they were from another state completely) and appreciated the underachieving ways of the Don Mattingly and Dave Winfield led Yankees through the mid 1980s. “Big” Dave Winfield and his lunging swings for the fences were the stuff of legend but so were Ricky Henderson’s patented, if unnecessary. “fly-catches” and I loved ‘em both. Mattingly was just a stud. 

Although the Yankees didn’t make the playoffs once from 1982 until I graduated East Meadow high school in 1991, I remained their steadfast fan. I know, I know, call the wahh-mbulance. But the point here isn’t my dedication, it’s my lack of dedication, and just why that might have happened.

You see, graduating high school, and going away to college all the way down the block at Hofstra University in Uniondale, N.Y., I lost contact with many of my fellow Yankee fans, strangely enough, and became a fan of other things instead. Girls, beer, punk rock music. You name it, I liked it more than the Yankees.

That’s right, I admit it. My focus wavered. (I also didn’t play fantasy baseball for a while. I know. Crazy…) But that’s not all. After a drought of 12 seasons, the Yankees returned to the playoffs in 1995 and would then proceed to make the playoffs for 12 seasons in a row. During that stretch, they would take first place ten times (including nine seasons in a row), and win the World Series four times (including three years in a row.) Quite frankly, the Yankees were not just dominating during that amazing run, they were boring. Or at the least, predictable. During those 3 consecutive World Series victories, just one game was won by a Yankee opponent. It was the Subway Series of 2000 (Let’s Go Mets?), and I couldn’t care less.

Is anyone out there really that surprised that I lost touch? And more importantly, was I really the only one?

Maybe it was the increasingly frequent high-profile signings (like Alfonso Soriano, and later, Alex Rodriguez) at insane salaries, or all the press about their ridiculous payroll, or like I said, maybe I was just bored. But some time around the turn of the millennium, I bailed on the Yankees completely, (angering many of my long-time, die-hard Yankee-fan friends) and headed to…

That’s right: the land of golden opportunities like the delicious Herbie Burpie sandwich at Herb’s Deli on Taraval Street in San Francisco, the perfect place for a college graduate with a degree in secondary education to fulfill his financial dreams. It’s true, my journey across the country made leaving the Yankees behind that much easier, and soon opened my eyes to a whole new franchise, with a certain bald monster who was smashing home runs at a supernatural pace.

And the rest, as they say, is history. Not just for Barry, but for me too. I didn’t work at the Herb’s Deli that long (but I still make a mean foot-long), got a job in teaching, and soon could afford tickets to games at glorious “Pac Bell Park.” Barely. 

I’d found a new team: the illustrious, if underwhelming, San Francisco Giants, and soon got to enjoy their moderate successes from the point of view of a true fan. With their unique style of forming lackluster teams comprised of one or two marginal hitters (Aaron Rowand? Randy Winn?) and a battery of strong pitchers (Timmy Franchise! Matt Cain!), I’ve grown to love the Giants and look forward to their chance at contending in 2010.

I’m not a lifetime fan, mind you. And not a second generation fan either. I realize this completely. At this point, those titles are no longer available to me. Because I’m a traitor and I know it. 

But when I saw the signings of Mark DeRosa, Aubrey Huff, and Bengie Molina in the last few weeks, and a strange, satisfied grin came across my face, I knew I was something else too.

I’m a Giant’s fan now. Now, let’s see if it lasts.