Go Giants!  Yeah!  Boo-yah!  World Series!  Woo . . . hoo . . .

Oh forget it.  I just can’t do it.  The Giants massacred the Cardinals in a 9-0 shut out on Monday night.  (Yes, I know what a shut out is.)  They’re in the World Series and I’m happy for them.  I’m also grateful there weren’t too many crazed San Franciscans making a ruckus outside my apartment.  But that’s it.  

Now the whole city is quivering with the excitement of the first game of the Series and I wish I felt it.  Even though I grew up in a family fully committed to sports, I’ve never been able to get into the fanatic sense of fandom.  Like Morales in “A Chorus Line,” I feel nothing.

No it’s not because I’m gay and I transfer all the dedication and energy that straight guys direct to sports love to movies or the theater, the “Chorus Line” reference notwithstanding.  Some do.  For lots of gay guys the Oscars and the Tonys are the equivalent of the Super Bowl and the World Series.  No.  As much as I enjoy the awards shows, my life doesn’t revolve around them, either.

I’ve just never understood how the achievements of people I don’t know and likely never will reflect on me because I’ve bought a ticket or watched them on TV.  When I was at the University of Washington, I was happy for the Huskies every time they won the Rose Bowl and while I still lived in Seattle, I thought it was cool when the Sonics or the Seahawks or the Mariners did well, but I never whooped it up, got drunk or started throwing things out my window.  Their successes didn’t reflect on me.  If they did, I’d be all for throwing a party every time Microsoft or Google stocks hit a new high.

I’m not criticizing people who do have that connection.  I’m marveling at it.  I’m clearly in the minority even though my upbringing should have put me right in the middle of the fan base.  Seriously, when I was a kid, I remember my family listening – on the radio! – to the Indy 500 and the Seafair hydroplane races because our weekend cabin was out of TV range.

My roommate came home a little while ago and said he’d just seen Barbra Streisand getting out of a limo downtown.  She must be in town for game one.  You’d think that would have jazzed me.  Not so much.

I guess the appeal of big time sports will have to remain one of those great mysteries of life to me – like Hawaiian pizza and acid-washed jeans.  I’ll leave the fanaticism to the true believers and watch the drama of the next four to seven games.

I don’t look good in black and orange, anyway.