Excuse me for being corny, but I am filled with pride. I sat in the Yan kees’ president Randy Levine‘s box for Wednesday’s game. Every one was down. Randy sat off by himself. Friends fretted. One player was hurt, another accosted. The team had been losing. Its win-win spirit was about as high as the last 10 minutes of Mike Huckabee‘s campaign for Oval Office.

Every seat in the stadium was filled. Give or take a grubby guy stuffing in his second hamburger, 47,000 people crowded the stands. So jammed that one dude ahead of me tripped carrying two glasses of beer but didn’t spill a drop. Probably because his mouth was closed.

I’d been told not to worry about traffic to the game because the majority of fans take the subway, bus, public transportation. Yeah? Maybe in Boston where, by the way, Fenway has the worst hot dogs in captivity. They’re beige in color. And taste like they were made by Ahmadinejad‘s personal chef.

Anyway, whoever said not to worry about traffic obviously lives on third base. It took forever to negotiate through the East Side’s Willis Avenue Bridge to the Stadium. That particular day the trip took so long it occurred to me the only way to see the opening pitch was to be born there. Its garage was packed triple-deep in limos, SUVs, jeeps, junky old busted-up Hupmobiles, those tiny foreign sports cars that should be deported, even a yellow taxi. Forget where its cabbie’s from. I only know the passenger was headed for Canarsie.

The majority of attendees wore Yankees jackets, Yankees sweatshirts or Yankees caps. And were fervent. Like a pack of religious zealots. They watched their cellphones. They shouted, “Go Yankees.”

I’m thrilled this many were heading to the game but, in fact, the only way for a New Yorker to get someplace in a hurry is to walk. It took so long to reach there that I had time to consider solving the traffic problem. One, make every two-way street a dead end. Two, keep all vehicles not paid for off the street.

The place had security up the yingyang. Cop cars double-parked. Police dogs patrolling a VIP gate entrance. Guys who made linebackers look puny guarded entryways. You had to show tickets or passes or paperwork or more IDs than you need to get citizenship.

A few weeks ago the boxes were filled with VIPs. Sitting alongside me had been Trump, Elaine of Elaine’s, Billy Crystal. Wednesday, I saw no VIPs except for faithful Rudy and Judith Giuliani. Rudy told me he and the Texas governor bet whichever side loses has to buy the other a pair of custom-made cockroach killers — otherwise known as Texas boots. Rudy was, at the time we spoke, wearing a pair from 1996. “They only cost $350 then,” he said. Rudy, by the way, gets his portrait hung in City Hall on Tuesday.

The Texas Rangers. Nice-looking team. Good-looking guys. I have nothing against Texas, where big is a little word and the hotel bathrooms are the size of Balmoral. But it’s tiresome when everyone from that state claims to be rich. Next time I’m introduced to a gent in Houston I’ll ask him: “Pardon me, how much did you say your name was?” But this team from this nice, huge, tremendous, fabulous, expansive, gigantic state has never been in a World Series. Never won a league championship. Why are they bothering us now? We have to win this one for George.

The Rangers do a good job. It’s not like any Yankee fans would ever, ever think of sending them a shipment of black cats so maybe they mightn’t have good luck. The truth is, it’s not whether you win or lose. It’s whether you can deduct your losses.

Wednesday’s game filled me with pride. I was just plain proud of the Yankees. They did it. They’re the world’s best. Maybe it’s because we don’t see pride anymore. Cashmere’s from Mongolia. Cars from Japan. Shoes get made in Italy. Technology’s out of China. T-shirts have Guatemala labels. Blouses get stitched in Korea. Stores push leather jackets from Turkey. Lose a bag on a domestic airline going from Atlanta to New York, you phone India to find it. Fight over your American Express bill, and it’s handled in Pakistan. Stuff used to be made in Greece, but today all they export is bankruptcy.

Growing up we had love for parents. Respect for teachers. We obeyed police authority. It was God in school prayers. The flag? For saluting, not burning. Our greatest country in the whole damn world was for adoring and supporting. You stayed married and had babies after you married. You believed in banks. Trusted big-name companies. Ladies skirts were at a proper length. Men’s pants crotches didn’t sweep the sidewalk. It was never stage shows or movies titled with the words “vagina . . . penis . . . schmucks . . . s – – t.”

Where is our pride today? Not for Boy Scouts, who can make fancy knots. Not for Girl Scouts, who peddle those cookies. Not for anyone who grows up to be a hedge funder. Not for many Albany politicians, including those not already arrested. It’s certainly not in rallies around the White House.

That’s why it’s wonderful to see it at Yankee Stadium. I don’t know all the players. But I can recognize Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez, Nick Swisher, Jorge Posada, Joba Chamberlain, Andy Pettite, Mariano Rivera, CC Sabathia, Mark Teixeira. Go Yankees.