Is there anything more frustrating than rooting against the Yankees? Maybe a few:

1. Chasing white whale.
2. Pushing rock up hill, repeating.
3. Having liver removed, time and again, by some sort of mythological bird.
4. Rooting for Mets.

You know, for years, I’ve had a monogamous, if dysfunctional, relationship with the Mets. Every April we celebrate an anniversary of sorts; they always look as beautiful that time of year as they did when they had Hubie Brooks at third and L’Grande Orange as their star pinch hitter. By May, we're bickering about who should be balancing the checkbook, and by June I’m usually sleeping on the couch.

A new ingredient fell into the mix this year when the Red Sox happened by like the girl next door with a boob job. They had always been there to make fun of, sure, but they’d never looked so damn sexy. I was powerless. But I want Mike Piazza to know that it was a fling, a meaningless fall fling. Sure, I thought it was true love, the way I would sit up until one in the morning to see the end of a game. The way I would wait all day for those four o’clock starts to roll around like a teenager waiting for the prom invite. The way they were all I could talk about with anyone. I considered buying a new hat.

But then they left me, well, speechless in a bar in Brighton. It's easier to just not make the playoffs. I'm trying to tell myself that I don't care who wins the World Series. Hell, Marlins fans don't really even care who wins the World Series. But it isn't true. Go National League. I'm back, and I swear it didn't mean a thing.