Apparently, there was insufficient pain in my life.

For reasons buried deeply within my baseball soul, last week I felt compelled to visit Yankee Stadium for a two-game set with the Kansas City Royals. I had a long-standing curse which caused the Red Sox to lose virtually every game I attended, and hoped and prayed that the Emmet Curse was transferable. It was not. The Yankees won both games and opened a seven-game lead on the Red Sox.

I have no friends and Blue Eyes refused to take one of her accumulated 20 weeks of vacation, so I made the trip solo. I had decided long before 9-11 that I would never fly again so I drove the 400 miles with an overnight stop in Foxboro, Mass.

The previous week’s blackout did not bother me. I had no less than six flashlights (large and small, one on the key chain.) If there was another blackout, I would be a beacon of light.

Fenway Park and Boston should be ashamed. It is simple to drive down the Major Deegan Highway and park at Yankee Stadium ($10) within 10 minutes of leaving Route 95. Even getting to Fenway Park is a nightmare, followed by the quest for a parking space.

There I was, in the belly of the beast, Stan’s Bar on River Avenue, which advertises itself as “The Home of Yankee Diehards.” It was hours before the game but I watched them come from the subway, from cabs, from the parking lot, all carrying the mark of the beast . They had the “NY” logo on their hats, their shirts, their pants, their black baseball hearts. I was surrounded by the enemy, but the gates were not open yet and the very cold beer was $4 a bottle. I stayed. I kept very quiet.

Before you even get inside Yankee Stadium, you are assaulted with the fact that the team has won 26 world championships. It is on the outside wall, the inside wall. Once inside, (first row in left field) the baritone announcer reminds you that the Yankees are “the most successful sports franchise in history. Not the Montreal Canadiens. Not the Boston Celtics.”

Braggarts.

To add even more insult and pain, the (surprisingly clear) center field screen shows and endless loop of famous Yankee home runs including Bucky (censored) Dent, Jim Leyritz, Reggie Jackson. It went on and on.

Naturally, the hated Yankees won both games. I appeared to be the only one of 46,000-plus who stayed in the seat when the Yanks hit one home run after the other. My plan and the Emmet Curse failed.

The pain.

But New York has so much more than baseball. The most beautiful women on this planet walk on New York sidewalks, eat in New York restaurants, ride in New York cabs and work in New York skyscrapers.

It also has museums like the Whitney and Guggenheim. Sadly, the Whitney was closed and the Hopper exhibit was unavailable. I had to settle for “Picasso to Pollock” exhibit at the Guggenheim. To a Luddite like me, that Frank Lloyd Wright building actually overpowers any exhibition inside. It is an astounding creation.

Then there is Broadway.

I mistimed my trip to the discount ticket booth operated by the Theater Development Fund in Times Square, so I walked directly to the St. James Theater on West 44th Street, where the smiling ticket agent cheerfully offered me an aisle seat for that night’s performance of “The Producers” for a mere $100. Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane, the original stars of the show, were long gone. But after the shock wore off, I slid my credit card under the window and bought the ticket.

There is no magic like Broadway magic. It was worth $200. I always find it astounding that mere human beings can create such magic on a stage. I laughed so hard that I was sure another ejection was coming. (This was a common occurrence in my youth.) Then I noticed that everyone else was laughing just as hard.

Sarah Cornell, the 6-foot goddess who plays the vamp Ulla in the show, was worth the price of admission and the eight-hour drive. It is impossible to believe that anyone, even Nathan Lane could do a better job than Lewis J. Stadlen (Max) and Don Stevenson (Leo).

It was a glorious evening.

Gradually, my hatred of the Yankees diminished, at least for the night. For my personal pleasure, New York opened a bar called Robert Emmett’s (misspelled) directly next door to the St. James Theater. (For the uninitiated, Robert Emmet was a great Irish patriot who was hung, drawn and quartered by the English oppressors.) There I toasted New York City and my very good fortune. Because I was a Robert Emmet namesake, I thought a few free drinks would come my way. Just the opposite. Any Robert Emmet who comes in the door is expected to set up the bar. Just like at Yankee Stadium, I kept my yap shut.

Drinking a pint of Harp, I made plans for my next trip to New York City, maybe in January. By then, the Yankees will have won 27 world championships. If there are no more blackouts, I may only bring two or three flashlights.

Well, four, counting the key ring.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara @msn.com.