8702050846
DETROIT FREE PRESS
870731
Friday, July 31, 1987
STATE EDITION
1D
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL EDITION 1D
Copyright (c) 1987, Detroit Free Press
ENEMY NEW YORKERS SHOULD DECEASE TO EXIST
NEW YORK -- You say: "What a nice day."
I say: "Drop dead."
You say: "Can I help with your luggage?"
I say: "Drop dead."
I am practicing. I am rehearsing my lines. I am following the advice of
every general from Napoleon to MacArthur. Know your enemy. Think like your
enemy. My enemy is the New Yorker. From now until a week from Sunday. Ten
days. Seven baseball games. I am practicing.
"Call if I can be of service," you say.
I say: "Drop dead."
I must become the enemy. His ways must be my ways. Ten days. Seven games.
I have no choice. I must be rude and loud. I must push in line. I must buy my
"country" clothes at a 14- story department store. I must suffer a nervous
breakdown. I must become the New Yorker.
"WHO ASKED YOU? BUG OFF! DIE!"
These are my lines now. It is all for the cause. The Tigers and Yankees
will do battle for first place in the American League East. Ten days. Seven
games. It should be top- notch baseball.
But here is the problem. For years, the Midwest teams that challenge the
Yankees have been viewed here as bumpkins, rubes, dairy farmers. So have their
fans. They are considered annoying little distractions by New Yorkers, who
believe a pennant is part of their birthright, along with getting robbed once
a month.
Not this time. This time we play by their rules. Fire with fire. Spit with
spit. Ten days. Seven games. Walk like a New Yorker.
"Enjoy your stay with us," you say.
"Get stuffed," I respond.
A brazen image
I stand before my hotel mirror. I practice the leer. The rolled eyes. I
try to look as if the next person who crosses my path will be the last.
"Do you have the time?" you say.
"BLEEP OFF! WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM?" I say. "WHAT'S YOUR . . . BLEEPIN'
BLEEPIN' PROBLEM?"
I do not like this. It is part of the game. Think New York. Beat New
York. This was not necessary the last few years in the AL East. The truth is,
for the last few years, the Yankees did not play well enough to elicit the
seething, venomous, nostril- quivering hatred that we all enjoyed in the past.
The Mets took that role.
But now, the Yankees are back. Mr. George Steinbrenner is once again
sticking his nose in the team's day-to-day affairs. The manager, Lou
Piniella, is quietly seething. The players are being shifted back and forth to
the minors. In other words, everything is normal.
And now the Tigers are challenging.
And Tigers fans must be ready.
"I think your shoe is untied," you say.
"AH, YOU DON'T KNOW NUTHIN! GET THE BLEEP OUTA HERE! YOU'RE A BUM! YOU
ALWAYS BEEN A BUM!"
I'm getting the hang of it, I believe.
Big-name marquee
So there it is. Think New York. Beat New York. Detroit fans will be put to
the test in the next 10 days. Three games here. Four in Detroit. Yankees
here. Yankees everywhere.
Every pitcher will know every hitter's tendencies. Every hitter will know
when to expect the fastball up and in. The rosters will become familiar. The
names will become familiar. Tigers-Yankees will be the evening and afternoon
activity. A limited engagement production. Ten days. Seven games.
We are talking here about a series that will help determine the pennant.
We are talking about a big series, the last meeting between these teams this
year. We are talking Trammell, Whitaker, Gibson, Madlock, Morris, Tanana. Big
names. We are talking Winfield, Mattingly, Rhoden, Henderson, Righetti. Big
names.
We are talking tough.
Every edge counts. Every tiny advantage. We cannot control what goes on
between the lines. But there will be no intimidation in the stands. No, sir.
Not this time. Dairy farms? Did they say dairy farms? Nuh-uh. Not in this
corner, anyhow. Think New York. Beat New York.
I am ready. I walk down to the hotel lobby. I see a man in a Yankees
shirt. I stand alongside him. I wait for him to say something. I wait and
wait. He doesn't say anything. I circle around him, in my Tigers shirt and
Tigers cap and Tigers shoes. Nothing. What's going on here? Finally I say,
"Excuse me--"
"Drop dead," he says.
I gotta work on this stuff.
COLUMN;BASEBALL;HUMOR;DTIGERS;NEW YORK;NEW YORK YANKEES;Detroit Tigers