People say the first step toward solving a problem is admitting that the problem exists. I disagree.

Where I come from, the first step involves fried food, hysterical crying, public nudity, multiple felonies, and a plunger (don’t ask). Then, admittance comes.

Anyway, now that I’ve finished Step One, it’s time I shared something with you, the readers:

I, Daniel Aaron Fersh, have a gambling problem.

I know you’re disappointed (Mom, please don’t look at me like that. After all, you’re my bookie), but don’t worry. I’m not in any physical danger nor do I owe any money.

Rather, the debts I’ve incurred all involve me doing stupid things for the most arrogant, despicable, loathsome people on the face of the Earth: New York sports fans.

Yeah, I said it.

You people strut around like you own the place every weekend just because your precious Giants and Jets do things like ‘win,’ and then every October you get your swag on because the Yankees are ‘in the playoffs again.’ What does that even mean?

(No seriously, I’m asking. I root for the Washington Redskins and the Baltimore Orioles If you don’t know what that means, check the dictionary under ‘pain’).

So I made a couple of wagers with some loud-mouthed New Yorker friends of mine to shut them up for good, and prove for everyone that my D.C.-Maryland roots could kick their Yankee-loving butts, up and down the Capital Beltway.

As it turns out, my Washington-area a** is grass, and they are the lawn mower.

The first wager was, in hindsight, really stupid. I bet my two friends that the Yankees would miss the playoffs this year. My logic was simple: the Boston Red Sox and the Tampa Bay Rays were better teams, and the Yankees would finish in third place, just like last year. I neglected to account for the fact that during this off-season those pinstriped punks spent enough money to fix the health care system while stockpiling baseball’s best talent.

Now that the Yankees have clinched their division with the best record in Major League Baseball, I will have to go six weeks without shaving. FML.

The second wager was, at the time, a smart investment. I bet my buddy that the Redskins, whose $100 million defensive tackle was sure to make their defense as impenetrable as Maid Marian’s chastity belt in ‘Robin Hood: Men in Tights,’ would have a better record than the Jets, whose rookie quarterback was sure to fold under the bright lights of the Big Apple.

As it turns out, the rookie is better suited for New York City than Frank Sinatra himself. Meanwhile, my Skins look so bad that they’re already scouting high schools for their new head coach (Greg Robinson, anyone?).

Oh, by the way, the loser of this bet has to go an entire month without eating meat. Kill me. Kill me now.

So kids, I hoped you’ve learned your lesson, because I certainly have. In my quest to humiliate all New York sports fans, I lost two bets to the same guy who can’t pronounce ‘coffee’ and came away with one very important insight:

Never gamble. Ever. Unless you know you are going to win. Or at least you’re pretty sure.

Danny Fersh is a sophomore broadcast journalism major. His columns appear every Wednesday, and he would like to thank Lu, Annie and The Closer for their help on this one. If you want to see more of him (*winkyface*), check out his web cast this Friday on dailyorange.com. If you want to see less of him, go ahead and file the restraining order. He can be reached at dafersh@syr.edu.