My undying, oft-requited, love for the New York Yankees has a very simple — yet rather strange — backstory.

It has nothing to do with the fact that, in the 38 seasons I’ve been around, my boys in the Bronx have been in the post season half the time — extending my favorite season 19 times.

Or the reality that, during those 19 jaunts into October baseball, they’ve made it to the World Series more than half the time.

And let’s completely forget the actuality that, of those 10 trips to the Fall Classic, they won the damn thing seven times!

Given all those things, one could simply conclude [and here comes that old Met fan refrain] that it’s easy to be a Yankee fan.

The harsh reality is, in my family, nothing could be further from the truth.

See, my dad has a weird sense of humor. A brief example: He wanted to name our first dog, a mutt he found while walking his beat at the 60th Precinct on Coney Island, “Cat.” Why? “To confuse him, of course,” he said. (My mother, who, my dad figured, would have been equally confused, wouldn’t have it. They settled on “Tiger.”)

Growing up in Bay Ridge in the 1950s, surrounded by those rabid Dodger fans, my pop followed the Yankees. Again, despite their winning ways (they were in the World Series practically every year back then — you can look it up), this was not an easy thing to do.

When Sandy Amoros robbed Yogi Berra with that catch in left field, dear old dad punched the family’s brand new television, putting a crack down the center of the tube. A long punishment ensued, and he spent the off-season locked in a room with a giant, handmade Dodger championship handkerchief to dry his tears.

With the help of Don Larsen, he got his revenge in ’56. But I always got the feeling that it didn’t matter much to him. It was the back-and-forth, the arguments — the rivalry — that held his interest. And if he wasn’t rooting for the Yanks in that Dodger-crazy house, that conflict wouldn’t exist. Where’s the fun in that?

Fast forward to 1975. My dad has three sons and a dog named Tiger. New York has two baseball teams. One night, he comes home from work with presents for his two oldest and most impressionable boys: My brother Ross, two years my senior, gets a New York Mets pennant, picture frame and jacket. I receive the same paraphernalia — in Yankee blue and white. The frames and flags are hung in places of reverence above our beds. The jackets are worn like badges of honor. From that point forward — we’re instructed — we are fans.

A rivalry is born.

We battled over which game we would watch on that one television at Grandma’s house. We fought over which game we would listen to during trips in the car. We even argued over who was a better second baseman — Doug Flynn or Willie Randolph. As if.

So strong we were in our opinions, we sometimes came to blows. My dad would just sit back and laugh, reveling in what he had created.

It’s lasted until this day. The tête-à-tête over dinner, the jawing during the 2000 World Series, the heated trips to the ballpark, the sarcastic phone calls after Luis Castillo drops an easy pop-up.

No, it hasn’t been easy. But it has been fun.

Thanks, Dad.

Vince DiMiceli is the editor of the seven Courier editions including the Bay Ridge Courier and Flatbush Life.