Hating the Yankees: “It’s soooo easy”

We're sitting in the 300 level next to a trio of purebred mooks. It's not quite the rarefied air of the Vet's 700 level, the scientific state where blood's cut off to the cerebral cortex, but close. The mooks are in exquisite form.

Manny, you're a fat liar! That's just Manny being Manny, you fat, lying steroid-using pig!

Technically true, but aren't fat and pig redundant?

At least, they're not drinking, I observe. Then I realize there's a reason for that. They're already drunk.

That's yet another glorious side effect of an 8:07 start on a school night, a time only Bud Selig and TV execs could love: Fans get pre-pickled during happy hour(s) before game time. In hard times, with opera-priced playoff tickets, a guy's got to economize somewhere when beer is so costly inside the appropriately named Bank.

Manny appears on deck with his stupid hair. Never trust a man who works longer on his hair than any woman does. The drunk-on-arrival mook goes into overdrive, offering arias of indignation.

Manny, you fat, steroid-using pig, I could hit home runs if I took steroids! Pause. And I suck at life!

What do you know? A humble heckler, a hops-soaked philosopher. Manny? He glowers and showers and we send him away.

It's clear what we need now: The ALCS to go seven long, exhausting, nerve-shattering games, the last one interrupted by a cold, driving endless rain delay - not that we have personal experience with this - ending in the wee hours of Monday morning so the winner has only a couple of days to rest.

No fan wants the Phillies to face the Angels, mostly because most fans can't name a single Angel other than Bobby Abreu.

For help on the Yankees, I phone my friend Lizzy in Boston. We grew up in Washington, D.C., loving football, the only option after the Senators left town not once but twice. True rejection.

Both of us entered mixed marriages: Our husbands worship baseball. We love our spouses, so we grew to love their teams. We converted.

"We don't have the experience of hating the Yanks. It's always been about the Mets," I say. "Teach me."

"Oh," Lizzy says. "It's soooo easy."

Once going, it's hard for her to stop. Yankee jokes? She's got plenty. What does a Yankee fan use for birth control? His personality. Her name for Alex Rodriguez: Slappy McPurpleLips. I prove a quick study. Mine: A-Tool.

You know that Burger King ad where the woman throws stuff out the window on her husband while two troubadours strum "You bought her playoff tickets for an anniversary gift/If love is a game, you're losing"?

I hate that ad. My husband bought playoff tickets last season - a serious splurge - and they were the best anniversary gift ever. Who needs the other kind of diamonds?

Besides the thrill of the Phils, each game offered drama in the stands. During the first afternoon matchup against Milwaukee, the couple next to us engaged in tonsil hockey as though they were competing in the Stanley Playoffs.

Here's the shocking part: They were old, like, our age. Who makes out during MLB playoffs? Married people married to other people - which, after concerted eavesdropping, we ascertained they were. Instead of getting a room, they got a ballpark.

During the cold, driving, endless rain delay of game 3, as opposed to the one of game 5, we were treated to a car dealer who traveled all the way from Seattle with his drunk wing man because Jamie Moyer once pitched for the Mariners. Imagine the commitment, the absurdity. Postseason baseball can make people funny that way.

One trip to the World Series is a gift. Two trips to the World Series in two years is beyond wonderful. If the Phils face the Yanks, it will be so much fun as to seem illegal. And we're ready. My bet is the Phils fans' ardor, and ability to take on Yankee loyalists, will shame the Red Sox nation's loathing, making it resemble the work of a hinterland.