I was raised to be a New York Mets fan. I have fuzzy memories of my father trying to teach me to bat when I could barely walk. I have a picture of myself with one front tooth missing, wearing a flannel nightgown and a Mets batting helmet. Oh yeah, and the Mets won the World Series the year I was born. For the clueless, loving the Mets pretty much automatically means hating the Yankees. And to hammer it home, when I later lived in Baltimore and kinda had to be an Orioles fan, the hating-the-Yankees thing still applied. Big time. So the story of Damn Yankees, in which a middle-aged man sells his soul to the devil to give his team a chance to beat the Yankees, is one with which I can sympathize. When I was about 9, my folks dragged the whole family to some... More >>>