Read all about it I've always told non-San Diegans they don't--and couldn't--understand how special a place that county is. When our football team went to the Super Bowl for the first time, you could drive down this street near the beach called Newport Avenue and see gang bangers, hippies, jocks, and hot chicks in their cars and walking along the street, high-fiving each other. They were not tipping over trash cans and breaking windows. When the team promptly lost by more points than any other super bowl in history, we didn't care. We didn't boo. We gave those guys a heroes welcome home. After all, they were our first to get to the big game. When our baseball team went to the World Series for only the second time, and were promptly swept by the Yankees in four, the final game was in San Diego. The fans stayed for over 2 hours waiving their white towels and cheering their losing team as though they'd just won. A national TV sportscaster said, "I've been to a lot of championship games, and I've never seen anything like this for the losing team, home or not!" Now you gotta read this story and think, shit, San Diego really is a special place. It's a huge city, with a lot of people from all over the country (who wouldnt' want to live in SoCali after all). But it's still very much like a small town; unpretentious and giving. So when you see Michela's eye get that gleam, and those three little words, "Ah, San Diego" start coming out, you'll know why. And as a newly anointed baseball fan, I can truly say, Go Padres!