In San Francisco, because we are a target destination for outcasts and misfits and the frayed knots on society’s fringes, we tolerate everybody: red-bearded Lithuanian vegan dwarves into golden showers? “Come on down, the water’s fine!” We even tolerate the intolerant. Make excuses for them: “Ahh … they don’t know any better. Where they grew up, they were taught it was O.K. to throw rocks at the kids on the short buses.”
Which is why ballplayers have a problem with San Francisco. Mostly, they grew up honored and privileged in ruby red states where they were accorded elevated societal status.
Then they come here to play ball and encounter a community where everyone shares the same rights. It’s confusing. Sure, they all knew San Francisco was liberal (Like that weird art teacher in high school) but this place is crazy!
“Wait. What? We’re supposed to be respectful of EVERYONE? But how does that make US special?”
Sometimes they pretend it’s about their religious beliefs, conveniently misinterpreting the teachings of their Redeemer whom they consider too woke. “Turn the other cheek? I don’t think so, HayZoos.” “The meek may inherit the Earth, but they’ll have to go through me to do it.”
Eventually they usually settle down after realizing their spouse is much happier living in a cosmopolitan center with the arts and shopping and fine dining available to all, and it is worth the trade-off of not having to make nice with people who don’t look like them; and, oh yeah, they’re making a boatload of money and live like princes in one of the world’s greatest cities instead of being kings in some backwater cow town. Eventually they get traded to Dallas and everyone is happy. Except the spouses. San Francisco Rules.
Oh yeah. Layers.
