Go Phillies!

Ok, that’s what I’m saying now, as the World Series gets underway. A few weeks ago, I was rooting for the Minnesota Twins. I spent my chidhood in Minneapolis, after all, so clearly the Twins are my hometown team.

But are they really? Hard to say. So far, I’ve lived in 9 states, often having to immerse myself in the sports traditions of different cities for work reasons (hey, championship teams sell newspapers). Philadelphia or Chicago? Minnesota or New Orleans? And now Washington is in the mix. If I live here long enough, I’m sure I’ll get drawn into the drama of their teams.

With that patische of experience behind me, it’s no wonder that I have divided loyalties.

The NFL is the worst. My family is more into football than baseball, so I feel compelled to root for somebody on Sunday. But who?

For the past few years, I’ve been an Eagles fan. Hey, I lived in Philly, in the Italian Market of Rocky fame, no less – just try to cheer for anyone else (if you value your life). But there’s something about Brett Favre’s defection to the Vikings that makes for a compelling story. I can’t help feeling empathy for him, especially as he makes 40 look so good. And what about the Saints? How great would it be for that city, which lies close to my heart, to win a Superbowl? And so on.

Diehards may call me a fair weather fan. That’s OK, I can live with it. The point is, none of these places are my home – and yet all of them are. A winning team lifts their spirits and I’m happy when any of them do well. It’s the blessing and curse of the nomad. I suppose. I wouldn’t have it any other way.