Last year, during the Superbowl, I committed an act of sports heresy. I began the game rooting for the Patriots, albeit without much interest. Halfway through, with the Carolina Panthers threatening, I changed my mind and hoped for an upset. I think that's ok during the Superbowl, because no one really cares about the Superbowl.

But last night, I discovered something else about my sports fandom: I'm not really a Red Sox fan. I'm not just saying that because I didn't feel compelled to turn my car upside down and yell at the police. I say it because, while much of New England was using words like "redemption", "angst", and "Amen", to tell the story of the last two weeks of baseball, I was a little...bored. From my perspective, the Sox were just too much better than the Cardinals for this Series to be interesting. Where was the thrilling nausea of series past?

Realizing this gave me the same feeling of sitting through someone else's wedding, watching his mother cry, and thinking, "Hmmm. Did I order the sea bass or the filet?" The event was not really about me, because a leopard cannot change his spots, and the Mets have yet to cast off their own tiny Yankee curse, one which is exactly one World Series and a few horribly lopsided seasons long.

Sitting through the drubbing that was the last four games - I didn't really think much of it when Manny Ramirez' clumsiness in the field led to Keith Foulke's first blown save of the postseason - I became aware that, yes, I do like the Red Sox. Yes, I will wear my Manny Ortez (John Kerry is going to be President of the United States of America, and he can mix up a few names if he wants to. If I wanted Jerry Remy to be President, I'd write him in.) shirt with pride, keep shelling out ridiculous prices for Fenway tickets and watery beer, and yes, I will continue to spend beautiful May Saturdays in front of the TV (ok, maybe not this coming May, but in general).

But what really fires me up is an intense, burning hatred of the Yankees. It's odd, because I was in fact a Yankee fan at about age 8. In 1984, I believe, the Mets acquired George Foster. It was exciting, because as a somewhat obsessive baseball-stat memorizer I knew that he was one of a handful of players who had hit 50 home runs in a season. Though this stat sounds like your dad talking about 5-cent ice cream cones, it was an elite club back then. This fancy number, combined with a babysitter who insisted that we watch Mets games, converted me.

So in moving to Boston, where one either must hate the Red Sox or love them, I chose love. What's to hate? Though I have taken some heat for supporting both the Sox and the Mets, and though I've cheered for the Mets to beat the Sox in Fenway, I'll stick with it. I won't claim to feel any redemption, and I can't say I've waited for 86 years for anything. Indeed, the last time the Sox were even close, I was rooting against them. But for now, I'll take my chances with twice as many opportunities to beat the arrogant and overblown Yankees each year.

Let's go Smets.