Growing up in the New York metropolitan area, you are indoctrinated in the belief that this city is the biggest, the best, the greatest: Look, ma, I’m the capital of the world! We are the ultimate closers, you are taught, embracing the winners-and-losers philosophy espoused in “Glengarry Glen Ross,” David Mamet’s play about real estate sales.

First place: a Cadillac Eldorado.

Second place: a set of steak knives.

When we deign to participate in silly competitions with other cities — over the best museums, the best pizza, the best organized crime — we do so with an eye roll so exaggerated that it can unite this divided country in a shared loathing of New York. You could say our condescension is a patriotic act.

But throughout the decade about to close, smaller American cities have been able to wipe the smirk from New York’s collective countenance by bringing up one subject. It is the Goliath-toppling stone in David’s arsenal:

Sports.

“How nice it must be to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art anytime you want,” Kansas City, Mo., might say. “By the way, how are those Mets?”

“That ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ play on Broadway is supposed to be wonderful,” Boston might say. “Speaking of which, what’s up with your Jets?”