Editor's Note: Being a sports fan can become emotionally draining experience

It happened while Laura and I were in Carmel recently. Our hosts were big fans of the San Francisco Giants, and their games were on TV every night. They play in a beautiful stadium by the bay. They’re blessed with great pitching, including last year’s Cy Young Award winner, a kid with floppy hair who looks like he belongs in a skate park instead of  a ballpark. And they are, after all, something of the local team for those of us dwelling in Northern California.

I found myself developing a rooting interest in the Giants, and this is more complicated than it sounds, because what about my Colorado Rockies? Before coming to Crescent City I lived for four years in Colorado Springs and made several sojourns to Coors Field to watch Denver’s baseball team. They were loaded with young, home-grown talent and went on an incredible run to the World Series at the end of the ’07 season, winning 21 of 22 games. Their logo still emblazons the license plate frame of our Jeep, and “CR” stitching decorates two of my best sweat-stained hats.

And here’s the worst part: the Rockies and the Giants play in the same division, and are locked in a struggle for the National League’s wild-card playoff spot. Who would I support if it came down to, say, a one-game playoff between the two of them?

Right here at The Triplicate, there’s a reporter with Green Bay Packer cheese between his ears, and a photographer who refers to the Denver Broncos as “we.”

My taste in favorite teams is eccentric, perhaps because I grew up in Western Oregon where there were no pro sports when I was young. I bought local when I could: after the Portland Trail Blazers were born in ’70, that took care of my basketball interest. And of course I followed the Ducks and Beavers in college sports — it took higher education for me to eventually glean the vast superiority of the former over the latter.

Adrift in a pro sports wasteland, I diversified my childish loyalties. I was a front-runner in supporting the Yankees in baseball and the Celtics in basketball. I dutifully hated the Dallas Cowboys at the instruction of my father. One year the Pittsburgh Steelers established their training camp at nearby Willamette University, and I managed to get a bunch of the players’ autographs. They were terrible back then but I was hooked, which made it sweet when they evolved into a perennial Super Bowl powerhouse.

In the ’80s I worked at the Los Angeles Daily News long enough to develop a temporary liking for the Dodgers. I still remember the night the newsroom exploded in joy when Kirk Gibson limped to the plate and pinch-hit a dramatic home run to beat the mighty Oakland A’s in a World Series game. Even the sports guys cheered, and that’s rare because here’s a dirty little secret of big-city journalism: The people who produce the sports pages generally root against the home teams because their success means more work.

Us true fans are never that cynical, which is why I feel the need to resolve my ultimate rooting interest in the National League West.

Did I mention I bought a Giants T-shirt while I was in Carmel? Why is life so hard?