Torey Strahl, a native Bay-Stater, is living and working in Manhattan. She’ll be reporting to us from the front lines of the New York–Boston rivalry.
I’m from Boston. That means, by definition, I’m a sports fan. In New England, the playoffs have gone from an unrealistic hope to, quite simply, an expected duty for our four major teams.
This past fall, I found a tiny apartment in New York City. My roommate, born and raised in Manhattan, is a diehard sports fan, too. She knows how to argue, push the right buttons, and mention Bucky Dent; she has no problem making people cry. She has made it clear that I’m sharing the bathroom with the enemy.
The two of us together, squeezed into a couch in our 10-by-10-foot living room while the Pats play the Jets, embody every male-sports-fan stereotype imaginable—but with much less sweat and chest hair. Beer spills on our tank tops. The brims of our hats are bent beyond repair from impromptu wrestling matches. More “your mother” jokes are dropped here than on that crappy MTV show. Internal bleeding is self-diagnosed.
Our living situation will be a case study: What happens when two female sports fiends from rival cities inhabit the same abode? Will a Rondo debate follow every Celtics victory? (If so, a lot of chats about #9 are on the horizon.) Would knuckle sandwiches have been thrown if that portly, vest-wearing, foot-loving loudmouth had led the Jets to the Super Bowl? Will F-bombs be dropped in front of my mother when the Yankees are the topic at hand? (Yes, yes, and they already have been.)
I’ll report on this case study from a neutral and professional perspective. I cannot pretend, however, that my biases about New England sports teams will stay out of the reports. (Yankees suck.)
Here are a few key facts for readers to consider:
She’s got the home-field advantage, obviously. But we Bostonians have no problem being the underdog. And the bar at our corner is a Boston bar. If I need to hear a thick Southie accent (“Ah right, Gah-net! Lookin’ lahge ta-night!”), or need to partake in a celebratory Papelbon fist-pump, fellow Massholes are never too far away.
Both of our boyfriends are from Boston, so if the New Yorker and I are arguing, and she has me backed into a corner, I can shoot a text to the boys for some fast facts—or at least a good comeback. Relationships take a backseat to hometown heroes.
Naturally, some of our discussions will fall outside the realm of typical sports topics: “No one looks better than Derek Jeter in baseball pants.” “Um, have you seen Jacoby?” or “Which is worse, Tom Brady’s ability to flee the pocket, or his mullet?” Discussions of this sort are subjective and will therefore have no clear victor. Still, they are just as valid as debates rooted in statistical information.
I’ll be sure to detail any event in which either of us makes an absurd claim, drops another F-bomb in front of older family members, and/or partakes in a girl fight (I know girl fights are really all you want to hear about, anyway).
Until next time.
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