I was in Boston last weekend for a friend's wedding and, as I expected, Yankees' haters were out in full force--even though the Yanks weren't in town.

Jumping on the trolley for a tour of the city (forced by the Mrs.) the driver asks (into his microphone) where we are from. She loudly says New York and he groans deeply and the other passengers stare. Red Sox shirts abound. Next stop: Fenway Park. The ardent fans depart. The driver recalls the year Ted Williams would have won the MVP but for what Yankee. He asks the bus load if they know who and I yell ``DiMaggio!'' to silence as if a 56-game hitting streak is robbing the MVP.  

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The situation is OK as we visit Paul Revere's house (where they tell us he never said ``The British are coming!'')  until we get to the center of the city and the T-shirt sellers. ``We love the Red Sox and any team that beats the Yankees,'' makes me see red. My wife laughs because she knows it burns me.

I'm allowed to be a fan of sorts in my off hours.