There’s No Subway Series...and I’m Ok with That...

For decades, I have lived in a house divided with my husband and son rooting for the Mets, and my daughter and mother cheering for the Yankees, while I maintained my status as a sports Switzerland.

I remained mommy-in-the-middle even after Meg’s grandmother passed two years ago because the fight stayed fair since Meg’s brother Luke lives and works in another state. Because of her love of pinstripes and general knowledge of America’s pastime, Meg could hold her own against her dad, Neil, as they trash-talk each other’s team. When I run out of patience listening to them, the baseball adversaries turn on me with the directive to “lighten up.”

They seem to like playing on opposing sides, and their allegiances have never stopped Neil from taking Meg to Yankees games or kept Meg from going to Mets games during the years when Neil had season tickets.

I, on the other hand, don’t mind splitting my loyalties. Because I’m a born and bred New Yorker, I like spreading the love to all my hometown teams.

Coming from the Bronx, I grew up in a Yankees house. When the games weren’t on the TV, they were on the radio. In the off-season, the Bombers’ next season team was all anyone ever talked about. By the time I graduated from college, you might say I was Yankee-d out.

Enter Neil—a guy from Queens who bled blue and orange. I was more than ready to throw my support to “his” Mets. (My mother acted as though I was giving up Catholicism to practice a different religion.) In fact, during the team’s 1986 World Series championship and ’88 run to eventual elimination at the hands of the Dodgers in the National League Championship series, I think I was a bigger fan than he was.

When Luke was born, we remained a Mets-only home and continued to be so until Meg was about six. I’m not sure whether it was her simpatico with my late mother, or if she wanted to carve out her own identity by being the antithesis of her brother, but Meg declared herself a Yankee disciple and lines were drawn.

At one point during his grammar school years, Luke’s room looked like an annex to the Mets Store, and Meg’s collection of Yankees gear was pink and often embellished with rhinestones. Many of those items still remain.

As much as it saddens me that one of our New York teams has not gone the distance to compete in the World Series, (and half of my household is frowning) I don’t know if I would have had the emotional bandwidth for what goes along with a Subway Series. I’m not even talking about trying to get or afford the !000-dollar tickets. The physical stress of going back and forth to the games with both legions of fans, giving each other the side-eye would take its toll.

Unlike me, my family members are invested in their respective teams as though they’re actually on the team. I like watching them get excited when the Mets or the Yankees win, but it’s hard to watch the dejection when either team loses—or the gloating when one team wins and other does not. (FYI: Using the phrase, “It’s just a game,” to a diehard fan of any sport is not recommended. Trust me.)

On a grander scale, we really don’t need another reason to divide our city on top of current different points of view on the influx of migrants, our presidential candidates, the Israeli/Palestinian protests, how crime is being dealt with, and how to reconcile the behavior of local politicians, just to hit on hot button topics.

Something as simple as backing rival sports teams, which could be fun because—I’ll say it—it’s a game, could become an excuse for people to take other frustrations out on each other. In fact, Neil has graciously offered to watch the Series with Meg, who’s already laid out her gear for the festivities.

Having at least one New York team in the World Series is enough for me. I like any excuse to root for our city to win.

Go Yankees.

Lorraine Duffy Merkl is the author of three novels, most recently “The Last Single Woman in New York City.”