Beijing, October 2005

The Great Wall at Mutianyu

Beijing's Summer Palace

Forbidden City

Repost: Bleeding Blue in a Sea of Orange and Black

(originally posted 9/15/05)

As I prepare for a return to my hometown of San Francisco after a three-year hiatus in New York, I have been forecasting what life in the Bay Area will be like. The prospects of spending time with my family especially my grandparents, watching my friends' families grow, and snowboarding in Tahoe are all thoughts that immediately come to mind and make me realize that a return to the City is the best choice I could have made. Born and bred in San Francisco, I have a deep affinity for the city. I love the Chinese food, I love the people, I love the hilly landscape, I love the City's social history, I love living so close to the beach and I love the passion that the City has for its sports teams.

This last point though is where things get rotten in Denmark. Despite loving all things 415, I must admit one thing. . . I am a die-hard, purple and gold, true blue Los Angeles sports fan. Believe me, in my 32 years of life, I have probably been asked over 10,000 times how can a native San Franciscan who loves sports actually support the city's biggest rival. My answer has always been " Have you ever heard of Fernando Valenzuela, Pedro Guerrero, Steve Garvey, James Worthy, Byron Scott, Kareem Abdul-Jabaar, Shaquille O'Neal, Eric Dickerson, etc.?" (note: the exodus of the Rams from LA coupled with years of fantasy football and sports gambling have resulted in zero loyalty to ANY NFL team these days. For example, the Buffalo Bills are my favorite team if they cover the spread as I predict and as owner of Priest Holmes and Larry Johnson, The KC Chiefs might as well play in the Rose Bowl the way I root for them on Sundays.) Actually, my love of the Lakers, Dodgers and Rams (pre-1999) can be attributed directly to my father. Raised as a military brat, he lived all over the planet but held a special affinity for all LA teams. Although he spent virtually all of his adult years in San Francisco, he remains loyal to the teams down the interstate. He then transferred this support to me, his eldest son, as soon as I understood the rules of the games.

Upon reflection it was probably an easy conversion. When I think back to the first major sporting events that I can remember, the 1980 NBA Finals, 1981 World Series, and Super Bowl XIV come to mind. In other words, Lakers over Philly (Magic's rookie year), Dodgers over Yankees (Guerrero, Cey and Yeager--MVP's) and Steel Curtain over the Rams (can't win 'em all). As I became enthralled with sports and learning the nuances of the games, the team my dad rooted for was always in the championship. Sports were great! Rooting for a winner is always fun, especially as a kid and I immediately became a die hard LA fan (cue Randy Newman music here).This did not come without obvious setbacks.

Throughout elementary school and high school, I was the only one, and I really mean ONLY one who did not root for the Giants and Niners. The Warriors played in Oakland and although they were the local basketbal team of choice, local support was a distant third when compared to its baseball and football counterparts. There are always exceptions as I have a couple of close friends who know every Warriors catchphrase throughout their history and honestly believed that Donyell Marshall and Billy Owens were destined to take Golden State to the next level. Seriously. Anyways, I was constantly ridiculed by peers, teachers, friends and family for my devotion to the enemy. At this point, it must be mentioned that my mom's large family are all native San Franciscans and quite logically, are hard-core local sports fans. There were never any malicious taunts made by any of my uncles (4 of the greatest guys you could ever meet) except for the occasional "why are you an LA fan?" As a kid, I always responded with a shrug and said "I don't know" to avoid any further ribbing or sarcastically blurting out "you guys are right, maybe I should root for Atlee Hammaker instead of Orel Hershiser."

For some reason, I always felt I was right in my convictions and I believe that tasting victory so often as a kid linked "winner" and "L.A." in my mind forever. My life as a sports fan changed dramatically in 1991, the year I graduated high school and was forced to choose a college to spend the next few years. Based on the above narrative, one would believe that I would have been on the next train down south without hesitation, but that was far from true. As I mentioned earlier, I loved growing up in San Francisco. It was a great diverse city and the Sunset district where I grew up had such a neghborhood vibe that it was terribly difficult to leave. Other issues including leaving my high school sweetheart, leaving home for the first time, not having family around, and not knowing anybody were all in my mind as I decided whether to attend UC-Davis, a good UC school about an hour away from SF, or UCLA. Looking back I can't even imagine how there was a time in my life where I was measuring UCLA and UC-Davis on equal footing. It actually took a conversation that I had with one of my oldest friends who said, "Undecided?? You've always loved LA....ever since I've known you." I vividly remember that statement clicking in my mind and telling her "you're so right...I'm heading to Westwood."

Choosing to go to UCLA was probably the singlemost defining moment of my life to date. Not only was it one of the world's finest academic institutions, I also met the greatest group of people I could have ever hoped to meet (outside of my boys in SF). The greatest experiences included going to to the 1995 Final Four (89-78 victory, Seattle, Jimi Hendrix grave, partying with the team...epic), the 1994 Rose Bowl (loss to Wisconsin, but sold my game ticket for $400 and rebought one for $200 and sat in the exact seat I had initially...in other words I gained $200 to see the Rose Bowl...easily my best business transaction of all time), Laker playoff games for $20 at the Great Western Forum (with keg in the Inglewood parking lot), and countless Dodger games. In addition, I was surrounded by local SoCal's whose childhoods of rooting for the Dodgers and Lakers mirrored my own. The only difference being that they watched games were on their local telecasts while I had to strain to listen to a static-filled KABC on the radio in San Francisco. I would have to stop listening after the static became unbearable or the feed would fade out altogether. More importantly, I now had a community of close friends to reflect on the heartbreak of Tom Niedenfeur in the '85 playoffs v. Jack Clark and the Cardinals and Ralph Sampson's turn-around jump shot at the buzzer to beat an awesome Lakers team in 1986. UCLA provided me with a safe haven to speak freely about my teams. To this day, I still know who to e-mail or text message during a big game to make a point about Gagne's effectiveness or Kobe's whining. Without fail, all of these folks are Southern Californian, born and bred... except for my one good friend in Vegas, where he was raised on Chick Hearn and Vin Scully despite being in another state.

It still seems unfair to me. I was given perhaps the ultimate compliment from a good friend and SoCal native when he officially coined me as an "honorary SoCal", a label not easily appointed to an outsider. This title was not given to me for my knowledge of LA driving shortcuts to avoid traffic or because I was a waiter trying to be an actor, but simply because I was down with the LA sports scene. I never embraced this title simply because it wasn't that I didn't like being from NorCal, in fact it was quite the opposite. I can't think of a better place to grow up than San Francisco, and despite rooting for the city's greatest enemy, I would never want to forget these roots. So much so that I am looking forward to rekindling my rivalry with my hometown once again. Unlike my childhood though, I am not forced to keep my feelings for my teams to myself. I now remain close to an army of Dodger, Lakers, and Bruins fans that will prevent me from logging extensive hours with a shrink to absolve me of my conflicted self.