At the start of the baseball season, I made a weak attempt to adopt the Giants as my new home team, figuring that after three years, it was time. Sadly, it turns out that my sports brain is only big enough to hold one team in it, and that tiny brain is stuck on the Twins, for better or worse. So I only half paid attention to the ups and downs of San Francisco’s pitching staff, the mostly downs of its hitters, and the long climb past the Padres to take the division pennant.

After the Twins crapped out in the first round of the playoffs for the eleventeenth year in a row, I tried to keep a little bit of distance from all the Giants mania going around town, just because I don’t like being one of those people who jumps onto bandwagons late in the season. But the bandwagon rolled fast and loose, and it was hard not to get swept up in the excitement of seeing a team of long-haired freaks, bearded freaks, has-beens, and never-will-bes (seriously, if they ever make another sequel to Major League, this team has already written the script) prove all the doubters wrong in series after series.

Tonight, I was riding the N-Judah as the Giants won their first World Series since moving to San Francisco. Pete’s and Momo’s across from the ballpark (which was closed; the game was in Texas) had big screen TVs up with all eyes on them. The final out came just after the train went underground; Muni announcers called out the win over the PA. As we came back up for air, the crowds began spilling out of the bars. At every stop, the train’s doors opened, and the sound of cheering poured in. 9th and Irving was a huge street party, and as I got off at my stop, I could see and hear (mostly hear) an even bigger party going at 19th Ave.

The Giants might not quite be my team, but San Francisco is my city, and it’s awfully nice to see my city so happy.