Tom Scocca at Slate takes this opportunity to gloat, deliciously:
Some people wait for that warm spring day when summer dresses and tank tops come out on the streets of New York at once. Me, I cherish a particular day in the fall, a day that some years sadly never comes. But when it does come, it’s a beautiful and unmistakable thing: the day the Yankees caps all disappear at once.
Before I first moved to New York, I hadn’t fully understood what sad, wretched, front-runners the legions of Yankees fans really are. I always knew they were awful people, the most obnoxious fans in sports, but I hadn’t grasped how weak-hearted they were. When the Yankees lose, there is no defiance, no residual pride, no we-want-a-rematch resolve. (The closest the Yankees come to that is their annual scheming to hire anyone who beats them.) People root for the Yankees because they want to identify with a winner—not just a winner, but the winner—and when the Yankees are losers, it blows a hole in their identity. They didn’t sign up for this to root for a loser.
And so the caps vanish, overnight…