Why This Kansas Girl is a Yankee Fan

Frank Abagnale Sr.: You know why the Yankees always win, Frank?

Frank Abagnale, Jr.: 'Cause they have Mickey Mantle?

Frank Abagnale Sr.: No, it's 'cause the other teams can't stop staring at those damn pinstripes.

Catch Me If You Can (2002)

This Obvious Fashion Tip of the week has little to do with all the fashion I witnessed in San Diego last week. It’s a fact that I declare that pinstripes are always in fashion every fall. However, a friend sent a Yankee hating blog my way regarding the one tired-ole bandwagon argument over Yankee fans like me. So of course, I will enthusiastically respond.

My father was born and raised in Wichita and is the youngest of seven to refugees of the Mexican Revolution. Like most American boys, he enjoyed America’s favorite past time. According to his side of the story while growing up, Wichita baseball fans had an opportunity to witness many great young farm league players and tournaments in Kansas. Most of the favorite players he idolized during his youth left the fields of Kansas for the New York Yankees.

And indeed let the record show in his youth many World Series Championships went to those Bronx Bombers many people grew to despise. The Yankees won 14 of those World Series out of the 20 they participated in between the time he was born in 1938 (Yankees won their 7th Series) until I was born (1975 Cincinnati Reds won their 3rd Series). In his lifetime the Yankees won a total of 18 World Series before he died February 22, 1999 (Yankees won the Series 9 months later). And the Yankees never lost a World Series game on his birthday, November first. Really, as my parents’ first born, did I have any other choice?

He wanted to be a professional baseball player and had every intention to pursue this dream until he was in a car accident that left him with a severe hip injury in his early 20s. He was actively involved in our softball/baseball leagues growing up and volunteered every chance he got to be our base coach. Even though at times I waned in embarrassment of his bombastic enthusiasm with the loudest whistle known to mankind, I never failed to listen to his coaching tips. He was the best coach I ever had.

I learned how to hit that sweet spot on that softball (and baseball at home) to get the furthest distance. He taught me how to catch and field. Taught me that certain clouds gave outfielders a more visible advantage to catching those pop flies and to this day I always quote my father when I see those special clouds. How to watch the batter’s stance and follow the shoulder (not the bat) when it came to predict where that ball needed to be fielded. How I need to stand to aim for those holes in the field and never, ever look after you hit. Run like the wind. And always listen to the base coach.

My father has to be the greatest undiscovered baseball scout, a title my brothers and I like to claim. During some of those troubled times where the airplane manufacturing industry in Wichita was unsteady and income was tight, we were treated somehow to many games at Lawrence-Dumont Stadium to escape that unemployment tension. I do cherish those games where we saw the likes of the Alomar brothers and others define their game before heading to the majors. And due to my father’s bilingual gift, we had the opportunity to meet those soon-to-be All Stars after every game. He breathed baseball that summer and couldn’t wait to talk to these guys that he handpicked early in the season that they were going to be “the great ones.” He never resisted any opportunity to get their signature and we saw many Spanish speaking players light up as soon as my father spoke their language. Those summers we not only spent many quality moments with our dad, but we became more appreciated baseball fans.

My father, if I can even admit to this day, was quite fashion forward. My father was approached more than I can count if he was a New York native because he donned a classic navy blue lid with the famous white NY embroidered emblem and sported his signature satin blue Yankee jacket, a look that wasn’t quite fashionable in Kansas in the late 70s and early 80s. And without fail, he replied and maintained his character in the most convincing Bronx accent, “Yeah.” He always rotated two identical Yankee hats: one he wore to his sheet metal job, and the other he wore on special occassions, to church, in which he took off before mass started, and while he watched Yankee games.

These are the memories of my father that will always be synonymous with the Yankees and baseball. I remember at a very young age watching the famous pine tar incident and my father’s reaction and hearing another teachable moment regarding pine tar and therestrictions. I also remember learning that year that Kansas City had a team, whom I affectionately do root for when they are not playing New York. I was 18 when I watched my first live MLB game and wore my pinstripes as a badge of honor when walking into Kauffman Stadium. And yes, the Yankees won and yes I was heckled all night long. I always rooted for those awesome players I watched in Wichita that played for those other teams such as the A’s and the Indians, but only when they were not playing the Yanks. I even admitted that “The Rocket” is an awesome pitcher even though he played for that one team in Beantown. I remember my father confidently stated before Derek Jeter’s rookie season started, that Jeter will go down in Yankee history. I also remember as a family we decided that signature satin blue Yankee jacket deserved to lie in the coffin with him when the time came. And one day I'll watch the Yankees play in their own stadium.

Sitting last week with a bunch of New Yorkers while watching Game 1 in our San Diego hotel sports bar as the lone fan from Kansas, I was never asked why I was a fan. We can sense our own. It is part of our culture, and it is in our blood. To them, cheering for the Yanks, I was a New Yorker. They could tell, I was never not a Yankee fan. I love them no matter who owns them and who makes their business decisions. I love them whether they win or lose the World Series. I will love them until the day I die. I am a Yankee fan.