What makes a real Yankees fan? Love, life or sacrifice?

What makes a Yankees fan? Love of a team only goes so far. Sometimes it’s life.

How did you become a fan of your team? Was it geographic? Based on your parents? When you were young, were your friends Yankees fans?

I can assure you that none of the above were the motivating factor for me. I grew up in Nebraska, and in the days when TV consisted of three channels. No cable, no YES network. On a good day, our rabbit ears picked up a fourth, PBS. And on Saturdays in the fall we watched the Big Red. No baseball was allowed.

Fast forward a decade. A new husband and his best friend. A new state — New Jersey.

My husband’s best friend had access to a Jersey shore home. I remember coming back from the beach with his wife to see the guys in the backyard in a baby pool drinking beer and watching who else but the New York Yankees.

Who were these Yankees? I had heard much about them but being a football-loving, Midwestern girl, I didn’t know a ton.

Everyone recognizes the names Ruth and Gehrig — DiMaggio, Mantle and Maris, even if you aren’t a fan of the Yanks. I actually read a book about Babe Ruth in high school. The championships. The Stadium in the Bronx with the unique frieze and Monument Park.

My new husband taught me much. His best friend, who was fanatical showed me the passion. The love of a new team. The love of new players. This I will never forget.

A day in the summer when we had our children in the pool at our home and my husband and I went in and out of the house taking turns watching the Yankees’ game and KNEW something special was going on. We looked at each other and just knew.

We came inside and watched together as David Wells threw a perfect game. I remember that look in my husband’s eyes. It was magical. It was US. The Yankees had become a part of everyday life.

There were the games in the Bronx. The games in Philly when we played interleague and the trip down Interstate 95 that was easier than to the city.

Notable, was the trip to The Stadium when we drove rather than take mass transit. My husband’s nickname was Wrong Way. We left, and in true Wrong Way form, he took the Deegan north rather than south.

I have no idea where all we were that night — I do remember an airport. But a couple of hours and a sufficient amount of swear words later, we spotted the World Trade Center, lit up like a beacon to lost souls.

Would that bad experience stop us from going back? Of course not. We just didn’t drive again. Back to the train and subway.