Confessions of a Killjoy New Yorker

It's got to be a conspiracy. As millions held their collective breath, the New York Rangers finally broke the curse and ended 54 years of suffering. At long last, they claimed the Stanley Cup earlier this month. Simultaneously, their counterparts at the Madison Square Garden, the New York Knicks, defied expectations by taking the Houston Rockets to Game 7 of the NBA finals. It was the franchise's best showing since the 1973 championship. The New York Yankees presently sit atop the American League East, on pace to claim their first division title since 1981. Why are New York sports teams suddenly breaking their longenduring chains of mediocrity?

It's been a monumental year for sports in the Big Apple. And the fans are loving it all. Unless, of course, you happen to be one of those oddball New Yorkers who roots for exactly zero of those teams. Unless, that is, you happen to be me. There's a conspiracy afoot against me. Just about every sports fan I know back in my hometown on Long Island has had at least one team to root for during this year of years for Empire State athletics. Except me.

As a lifelong Boston Celtics fan, I was praying that the cocky Knicks would choke on that 3-2 lead, and was overjoyed when they did. As a lifelong Islanders fan (they are, after all, the only true Long Island team), one of my favorite hockey pastimes is no more. That is, I can no longer chant '1940! 1940!" to indignant--and utterly defenseless--Rangers fans. As a lifelong Mets fan, the Yankees' success is equally painful. Especially because I spent a good part of my youth razzing my pinstripe-worshipping friends about George Steinbrenner gems such as Steve Trout, Steve Kemp and Steve Balboni.

It's all in good fun, of course, and it's part of what makes New York the best sports town on Earth. Even so, I suppose I could handle rival teams' success if my own teams were at least respectable. But the conspiracy against me continues--my three favorite teams picked 1994 to have altogether uninspiring seasons.

The Mets are headed for a second consecutive season in the basement of the National League East. The Celtics missed the playoffs for the first time in more than a decade--and didn't even get a good lottery number. And the Islanders looked thoroughly unimpressive in the playoffs. But good sports fans don't just tune out once their teams have been knocked from contention. Instead, they pick the team they like best and root from there. And for New Yorkers and their seven major professional sports franchises, the favored team come playoff time is very often the team playing the bad guys.

There's a bumper sticker you see occasionally when you're driving down the Long Island Expressway, and it captures perfectly the sentiment of many a New York hockey fan:

My favorite teams are the Islanders and anyone playing the Rangers.

This June, I've taken that motto and extended it to the NBA and major league baseball. During the NBA finals, for example, I made a habit of obnoxious celebrations whenever the Knicks screwed up or the Rockets made a brilliant play.

I watched Game 6 with 15 Knicks fans ready to celebrate if the New Yorkers managed to prevail. When Cambridge native Patrick Ewing missed those two open-court lay-ups and drew and offensive interference, I clapped. Loudly. When Kenny Smith nailed that clutch three-pointer with about two minutes left, I did a moonwalk. And when Hakeem Olajuwon got a piece of John Starks' final shot of the game, sealing the Rocket victory, I danced and cheered and nearly had my face punched in.

Of course, I didn't care so much that the Rockets were a step closer to Houston's first-ever professional sports championship. Instead, I was thrilled to death that the enemy couldn't have a clean sweep. It was something to root for in a year when there was nothing for me to root for. And it gave some life to an otherwise dull sports month.

It's a sort of compensatory satisfaction. If your own team can't be there, at least their team won't. You might call me the anti-fan. You won't see me cheering for any team with which I'm remotely connected--they're all in the cellars of their respective divisions. But when the cross-town rivals fall flat, I'll be the guy toasting their iniquity. And