My sordid past as a sports team hater

Years ago, I picked up a bit of cynical, so-called wisdom about sports fandom. Maybe it came from my father, the world’s first pessimist, but I don’t think so.

The lesson: Never root for any sports team, because in the end, they will always break your heart. Consider the long-suffering Chicago Cubs and Boston Red Sox faithful.

Nobody wanted to be a member of those tribes.

It’s better, more-satisfying, to root against teams. When they lose, you can gloat -- oh boy, can you. And if they win, well, you can tell yourself you never gave a damn anyway.

For years, I followed this gloomy approach to sports — not always, but usually after my team had been eliminated in any season. Rather than pick a second-favorite and cheer for them, I resorted to rooting against teams I would automatically dismiss as the Evil Empire.

Like the Duke Blue Devils. And the Houston Astros.

Beloved by their fans. Detested by everyone else.

Sports fandom is a strange game. Usually, team allegiances are forged in childhood, so if you stay in one place all your life, you root for the home team, the players and traditions you grew up with.

But what happens when you move around a lot, from job to job, city to city?

Well, in that case, you pick and choose.

I grew up in Syracuse, New York. For 50 years, I’ve been a rabid fan of the Syracuse Orange, the ‘Cuse, my drive-me-crazy college hoops team. As a kid, I followed the New York Knicks and Giants because they were the closet professional franchises.

I went to college in Buffalo and instantly became a Bills and Sabres fan. To this day, those two teams remain in my blood. I want them to win, will them to succeed. And believe me, considering how the Bills have blown big games, it’s often been a tough road to plow.

In 2014, when team owner and founder Ralph Wilson died at age 95, I repeated a joke among fellow Bills fans until I was shut down, told that it was too early for such tawdry humor.

The line: Did year hear Ralph Wilson wanted his offensive front line as pallbearers at his funeral? That way, they could let him down one more time.

Ouch.

When I lived in Kansas City in the mid-1980s, I became an instant fan of both the Chiefs and the Royals. I got to know the players by following them in the sports pages. I became an overnight adherent.

But time spent in any city didn’t always translate to sports team fandom.

I lived in San Diego in the early 1990s and never cared much for the Padres. To me, they were like the San Diego weather: not too hot, not too cold.

Boring.

Living in LA, I latched onto the Lakers and Dodgers. I’ve remained a die-hard Dodger fan, along with my younger brother, Frank, who has followed them since childhood. My Lakers love was all about Shaq, the Big Aristotle. When he left the team, my passion went with him.

But it was my move to San Francisco in 2000 that really challenged my devotion as a follower of the local heroes.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never get too excited about either the Giants or the Niners. I remember telling my Chinese-born wife, quite subversively, that if anyone at her new job even mentioned the Giants, to just smile sweetly and repeat these words.

“I bleed Dodger blue.”

That would show ‘em. (She refused to follow my advice.)

But my nonchalance about the Giants turned to outright loathing the more I followed the hi jinks of Mr. San Francisco Barry Bonds.

To me, he was simply a cheater, a sports-doper who lied about his habit, even as the skinny frame of his youth bloated into a sickening muscled blob, his head turning monstrously large.

And SF fans?

Like GOP Republicans, mindlessly kissing Trump’s behind, they puckered up for the big smooch..

"Well," they’d say, "he may be a cheater, but he’s our cheater. "

"You’re just jealous he doesn’t play for you."

I even wrote a front-page story for the LA Times on how Bonds had become the most-hated personality in sports, with anecdotes galore about what a malevolent human being he was.

I’ll admit it. I was a hater.

My nest-door neighbor Gordon, bless his heart, would ask me to go to Giants games, and I’d always demur, telling him I had paint to watch dry.

I loved to poke fun at all those SF homers who loved their Giants.

I knew the guys at my corner Italian deli adored their homeboys, and I couldn’t help myself when they stumbled, especially if they’d been outdone by the Dodgers.

One day, after LA overtook their cross-state rivals, I asked.

“So, who’s in first place these days?”

One of the guys turned to me.

“Do you want extra phlegm on that sandwich?”

Once, inside a Safeway in Giants Territory, I overheard two stockers bemoaning the continuing troubles of Giants star pitcher Tim Lincecum.

“What’s wrong with Timmy?” one asked.

“Well, for one thing,” I butted in. “he’s no Clayton Kershaw.”

They looked at one another and then threatened my personal health.

My wife was furious, saying that if I had a death wish, then go commit suicide-by-Giants-fan on my own time.

For some reason, my distaste for Bay Area sports teams did not apply to the fellas on the other side of the bay.

I liked the Oakland As, always have, and have rooted for the Dubs and their Splash Brothers like there was no tomorrow.

Then came this year's Super Bowl to challenge my sports-team-hating ways.

My allegiance was simple: These were my beloved Chiefs, with their epic coach and lack of a title in half a century. Versus the dreaded Niners, their arrogant helmsman and super-smug fans.

As the Niners went up by ten points with time running out, I plummeted into bitterness. 

Who cared it they won? Maybe I wouldn’t even continue to watch the stupid game.

And then something wonderful happened, something that took me back to my boyhood, where my soul wasn’t so jaded and I rooted for teams with a fragile, virginal heart.

The Chiefs rallied.

They came back. 

And they won.

My spirits soared with a feeling that flatly beat out any satisfaction I ever got from gloating, from hating. I didn’t have to celebrate any loss, I could revel in a win.

That Sunday evening, I watched every interview, followed every piece of confetti as it filtered down onto the field.

And so I learned a valuable lesson. 

In sports and, well, everywhere else, it’s better to love than to hate.

Lucky for me, my new playbook arrived just in time for baseball season.

So, how about those Giants?

Not.