Shared Joy is Twice the Joy, Shared Pain is Half the Pain

That Game was Hella Wicked.

When I saw that the San Francisco Giants were playing the Boston Red Sox here in SF, I absolutely, 100%, had to go. I mean, my hometown team against my other hometown team? The opportunity to root for the Red Sox with my die-hard Giants fan of a little brother by my side? What could be better than that?

The Red Sox crushed the Giants in two of the three games (7-0, 12-1), although they lost 3-2 the night I was there by loading the bases with walks in the bottom of the 9th, and then walking one more with the bases loaded. Dad was complaining that the Giants didn’t deserve to win, because they put men on third base with no outs in two different innings, and then left them there. Later, Robby was kind enough to point out that the third run wouldn’t count for the Giants hitter, because it “wasn’t earned.” I’m pretty sure the rest of the conversation went pretty much like this:

K: Wasn’t earned? 

R: Yeah. Since he didn’t get on base because of anything he did, he doesn’t get an RBI.

K: So, what you’re saying is that the Giants didn’t earn the run?

R: Yeah.

K: So since they won on that run, they didn’t earn their win either?

R: Yeah. No! What? That’s not what I’m saying!!

K: Laughs. Walks to the train.

Sorry, bro. I won that argument, even if my Sox didn’t win the game.

But, looking back, I think there was more there than just a hometown-hometown rivalry. I was honestly rooting for both teams. I cheered (with about 1/3 of the crowd) whenever the Red Sox did something good – got on base, made a nice catch, hit a homer. But I cheered just as much for the Giants’ players as they came up to bat. The Giants are my hometown team, but where does that leave my Sox? I love San Francisco, but I love Boston too. 

I love the T. I hate MUNI, BART, and Caltrain.

I love driving on 101, and especially 280. I hate driving in Boston. That said, I drive on 101/280 like I am in Boston, namely that a turn signal means I’m switching lanes right now.

I’m a Jumbo. And a Don.

I say “hella” all the time in California, but never in Boston. And I’ve been caught saying “wicked” a few times back East, though I still sometimes fail to understand the accents of native Bostonians.

I’ve lived through hundreds of baby earthquakes and one giant Nor’easter.

I will never see Anna’s or Chipotle as real Mexican food. I cannot decide between chowder and chowdah.

I like Safeway more than Shaw’s, but I have my own Shaw’s rewards card. Trader Joe’s beats ’em both, though.

If I drank coffee, I’d probably drink a regular. I know that’s not just a hallmark of a caffeine addict who always frequents the same Starbucks.

My definition of “the City” depends on which coast I’m on. But I will never refer to SF as “Frisco.”

Living through a summer without JP Licks sucks, but a year without In’N’Out is a million times worse.

There is nothing as wonderful as identifying your location by a square. Which is actually a circle. Or a triangle. But still called a square.

I would never be caught dead in shorts and a sweatshirt in Boston, but that’s my daily wardrobe in summers on the West Coast. My “East Coast style” leather jacket is pretty kick-ass on either coast. Just saying.

If you made me pick a city, I couldn’t do it. I’d probably pick Boston over San Francisco, but San Mateo over Medfuhd. I have two cities, two homes. I can’t pick between them, because they’re so different, and I love them both. And, just to make things a bit more difficult, I’ve got another city to add to my list of hometowns in just over a week. 10 days until we meet again, Prague!

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