Two years ago I moved to New York. Three days before I moved, the Giants won the world series. I cared. Sort of. Enough so that I went to the parade. I was wearing a Hawaiian print dress and converse, instead of anything black or orange, but still. I was there. It was an interesting note on which to leave San Francisco; frantic and incredible excitement, beer mugs and joints and celebratory people everywhere you look, total pride.
I’ve been to a Yankees game in New York City, but otherwise, sports have been largely absent. I’m in San Francisco now, visiting from New York. The night before we left, we were at a bar in the East Village for about 10 minutes. It was the first game and the Giants killed it. The bar was too crowded and noisy so we left. And now we’re here.
Everything in San Francisco is orange right now. The clothes people are wearing, the lights illuminating certain buildings. The bars are packed. I mean Packed, capital P. People are going nuts. It’s exciting. I care again. Sort of. It’s hard not to.