She was very friendly, right? Even though I was dressed in my Yankees gear?

Once inside, I quickly headed down to the field where they let you hang around near the Yankees dugout before the game. As I stood there with all the seven-year-old boys, hoping for a glimpse of Jeter, A-Rod, Somebody, I met another grownup fan and turned the Cam on him.

So we were going to beat the Angels 8-2? I was elated!

Since there was no batting practice, I climbed the ramps to my seat in the nosebleed section above home plate and settled in. The man next to me turned out not only to be an Angels fan, but the season tickets holder of all the seats in my row. 

“I’ve been selling them to you people for this weekend,” he said.

You people. Uh-oh. “Glad you were able to make some money off us,” I said, speaking on behalf of the other Yankee fans he’d hosed on the tickets.

Determined to be pleasant, I made chitchat during which I congratulated him on his team’s dominance over the Yankees. He wasn’t interested. Instead, he talked to the nasty usher who hovered near our section during the entire game, blocked my view and trashed every Yankee fan that passed by.

Then came the guy just above me who started pelting me with pieces of Double Bubble Gum. I remained calm, even when a piece hit me in the back of the head. I was starting to wish I’d stayed home.

And then came the game. I won’t rehash all the horrific aspects (OK, yes I will: Pettitte’s fifth inning meltdown, Jorge’s inability to throw out runners, Damon’s odd and inexplicable positioning in shallow left, Robertson’s incompetence, Coke’s incompetence, Bombko’s incompetence, the incompetence of all hitters not named A-Rod or Hinske or Matsui). Suffice it to say, we had another lead and blew it to hell.

As people started filing out of the place in the eighth, the sour-puss Angels guy sniffed, “Look at all the Yankee fans leaving. The game isn’t even over.”

“Um, they’re mostly Angels fans that are leaving,” I pointed out. “They’re wearing red.”

My husband, who was kind enough to accompany me, told me to keep my mouth shut.

After the 14-8 debacle, which left me feeling totally beaten up, I staggered outside in search of answers. The Yankees had just swept in Minnesota. Why were they getting killed in Anaheim?

The first fan I met was pretty sanguine about the whole thing. His answer? “It was just one of those days.”

Then, I met Matt, a Yankee fan with season tickets to the Angels. (Go figure.) His answer? Karma.

And finally, I ran into Shawn, who thinks the Yankees’ losing streak in Anaheim is a psychological issue.

While I appreciated all their theories, the truth didn’t dawn on me until I was back in the car. The reason the Yankees fall apart at Angel Stadium is because they’re allergic to it!

I started sneezing like crazy as we hit the road. And if I was suffering, why not Pettitte and the others? Maybe if Gene Monahan gave everyone a dose of this, Sunday’s game would turn out differently.

I don’t know what the Yankees were exp
osed to at the stadium that caused their allergy, but I do know what triggered mine. It was the rally monkey. I tried to strangle it.