I am an A’s fan. I watch as all the local news favors the San Francisco Giants in their coverage. I watch as the Giants parade Willie Mays and McCovey around the field every year, paying tribute to the last notable thing they did as a team, move from New York.

Before the westward migration of baseball, the Giants were a respectable team. When they left New York, the Giants had won an impressive five World Series. The Philadelphia Athletics had also won five World Series.  The Giants arrived in San Francisco with all the pageantry they would continue to use to continue the appearance of excellence. Since then they have appeared in three world series losing all three and having gotten schooled by their lackluster neighbors in four games in 1989. The only thing the Giants can add to their Willie parade is Barry Bonds, whom nobody likes anyway. Meanwhile, in Oakland the A’s have acquired four more World Series trophies since earning five in Philadelphia. The A’s are almost always in the mix for the playoffs with a fraction of the budget of the Giants, half the fanfare, a quarter of the support and none of the respect. Yet every time the Willie’s get pulled out everyone fawns for the franchise that has made mediocrity a standard. While you eat that gourmet pulled pork and red onion sandwich with your pinot noir over there in that plush stadium, remember there is baseball being played across the Bay.