Did you know there are some things in life that last forever?

The other night, I was talking with Dominic DiMaggio, brother of Joe, and Dom was a great ballplayer, too. Belongs in the Hall of Fame. He told me he was totally immersed in the Red Sox-Yankee series. I asked him if he hated the Yankees when he played them more than 50 years ago and Dominic DiMaggio, 86 now, replied instantly, "with a vengeance."

Ahh, loathing New York and the Yankees; it's a beautiful thing, as much a part of life in New England as foliage, clam chowder and taxes that make no sense.

Sure, some of our feelings toward the boys who play in the house that Ruth built stems from the municipal inferiority complex that too many Bostonians have. Like rush Limbaugh, we should just admit to this weakness, come clean and move on. Life would be simpler with fewer resentments and a smaller chips on our shoulders.

But part of the bitterness is real and makes these games better. Hate can be a positive force when it comes to baseball. It can make a wonderful holiday weekend seem even better, especially if the object of our antagonism -- the Yankees -- take the pipe at least two out of three times between now and Monday at midnight.

The spectacle of George Steinbrenner, contorted in rage, being carried out of Fenway and declared mentally deranged is enough to make even Howard Dean smile for real.

And that leaves us with the actual event itself, the Olde Towne team versus the Yankees for the American League pennant. It is bigger than any Super Bowl, bigger than Springsteen or the Beatles playing together. Know why? Because beating the Yankees makes people smile, makes us happy, puts a Bounce in everyone's step, makes the Indian summer sun seem warmer. And if you are among those who feign indifference or pretend not to care, I feel sorry for you because it means you are dead.

A long time ago I wrote in the paper that while baseball isn't a matter of life and death, the Red Sox are, and they still are, more than ever.