WHO'S YOUR DADDY? As a Mets fan, I always have a warm personal interest in the Yankees' defeat. The past few years have been rather enjoyable in that regard, but this year's added taste of humiliation ("Greatest Collapse in Baseball History" bawls the New York Post) makes a nice garnish.

Don't get me wrong. I respect the players, especially the most underrated catcher in the majors and the best Yankee shortstop of all time. And though George Steinbrenner is a major hate-object, old age (and perhaps the melancholy knowledge that soon the Devil will come to enforce his contract) has been keeping the bastard's previously insufferable profile mercifully low.

But the fans! Again, don't get me wrong. I know Yankee fans whose loyalty dates back to the Ralph Houk era, and they are noble and knowledgeable connoisseurs of the game and the team. But, especially in the post-season, mostly you get young and youngish chest-thumpers bellowing about destiny and 26 rings, then vomiting on Third Avenue.

Bomber fandom cuts across several demographic groups -- the bodega guys round my way are mostly Yankee fans, and so are many of the mousse-haired, suspender-and-pinstripes yuppie dipshits one sees at wood-panelled drinking establishments midtown, sipping $7 pints and hiding their bald spots under a Yankee cap. But they all have one ignoble thing in common; they can neither win nor lose with grace.

Earlier in this series, their cry was "Who's Your Daddy?" (I heard one local newsreader/hair model say it twice in one sports report.) It should be noted that this plays upon a rare self-deprecating remark made by Boston's Pedro Martinez after the Yankees beat him up earlier this year. Pedro in this instance showed a little class and even rueful honesty, and it is telling that the Yankee fans responded with a giant-foam-fingered froth of bad sportsmanship.

Sore losers are obnoxious, but a sore winner is worse, so I am glad that it falls to the Yankee fans to play the former rather than the latter role.