I come from a long line of Yankee-haters. The history is this: My dad, Brooklyn-born and raised, is still mourning the day in 1955 when the Brooklyn Dodgers moved to Los Angeles. As a matter of fact, he still cherishes a tee-shirt I bought him when I lived in LA, with a picture of Ebbett’s Field and a quote, “When they left, a part of me died”.

So I was taught to hate the Yankees. In my house, we were Mets fans. And later on, when I went out on my own and moved to Queens, a stone’s throw from Shea Stadium, it just fit. But for a long time, admitting you were a Mets fan was like admitting you voted for Bush in the last election.

These days, I must admit that I root for New York. If the Yanks are playing anyone other than the Mets, I cheer for them. And with a nephew who is a staunch Yankee fan, I find camaraderie with him in cheering on the Mets. Soon the numbers of Brooklyn Dodger torch-bearers will die off. And maybe one day, the Mets will win the Series again. All I know is, so far this summer, I don’t have to feel I am rooting for the underdog. With tabloid stories of Jeter hanging with hookers, and a blonde hanging onto A-Rod’s arm, I can wear my Mets hat without my nephew Tyler asking why I am rooting for losers. “Because”, I say, “a true fan sticks with the team no matter what”.