It would be easy for me to express my dismay and displeasure at the hordes of Yankee fans who showed up Friday night into the friendly confines of RFK. They have a tendency to travel in packs, screeching at the top of their lungs for all things Jeter, taunting the opposition with witty banter. It's easy to be a Yankee fan. They win, alot. But it's just as easy to be an anti-Yankee fan, to be fueled by a burning dislike for the Bronx Bombers, to always cheer for their opposition. Of course, Friday night was no exception. However, because of the thousands of Yankee fans, both genuine and faux, RFK rocked with the genuine thrill and emotion that only baseball can provide.
I was proud of the Nats fans. They held their own up through the seventh inning, continuing to shout down all attempts by Yankee Fan to dominate the cheering. And the Nationals, who hit the skids against the Rockies, had a legitimate chance of winning. Yet things, as they inevitably do, fell apart. And Yankee fan, perhaps more used to the seventh-inning inebriation than us DC fans, overcame all efforts by us to thwart their cheering attack. Despite this, as I sat high up in centerfield, in the very last row of seats with my friends, surrounded by the sounds and smells of Major League Baseball, I revelled in this passion for a game that yields much more disappointment than victory, and this Friday night was no exception. Had I only had tickets for Saturday or Sunday.
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