“The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” -Unknown (attributed to Twain, but…no)

That famous quote, all brevity and wit, admirably attempts to explain our city’s weather. We do embrace our fair share of fog and coastal winds, laughing often at the tourists from some Midwestern state who packed only shorts and tank tops for their “summer vacation,” now resorting to generic heavy jackets purchased from one of the many tchotchke shops lining Fisherman’s Wharf.

In truth, the climate in San Francisco rarely fluctuates more than 15 degrees in a day. While it may skew cold for those visitors from more extreme summers, it’s hard to imagine a more ideal environment for everyday life. The sky may be overcast one moment, clear the next, all coastal fog in the morning, and breezy by first pitch at AT&T Park–simply pack a sweater and you are set for the day.

Due to our state’s historically dry January, one of our few seasonal indicators–rain–has abandoned us. Often coinciding with the appearance of snow in the mountains, San Francisco’s rainy season (November-March) falls during a fortuitous time: baseball off-season. To make up for what most Americans experience in the changing of the weather, I turn to sports.

My immediate family focuses almost exclusively on two sports: football and baseball (with all due respect to the Warriors and Sharks, both of whom I faithfully support). The early-90s Niners were untouchable gods: yet to lose a Superbowl, looming perennially over the NFC, often the subject of grade school art projects around January that would line the hallways and instill in us a great sense of civic pride. My first grade teacher tracked the weekly NFL standings on a little magnetic board above a military-style footlocker (a trunk filled to the brim with prizes for those students attaining 100% in the weekly spelling test). The small, red and gold helmet adorned with the interlocking SF never seemed to move from its post at the top of the tiny column, labeled West. It was impossible to escape the regimented systems: Catholic school, 49ers football, rain.

As winter turns to spring, two events stand out in my mind: my birthday and opening day. If I am lucky (this year I am not), the two fall on the same day and I play hooky and enjoy garlic fries and Anchor Steam at noon. Growing up, baseball season seemed to take over the summer: batting practice in the park; exceedingly long contests of MVP Baseball on Xbox; cards, autographs, and bobbleheads; night games huddled amidst the swirling food wrappers, while blankets of rolling fog create the familiar San Francisco ceiling. The weather may be imperceptibly warmer, but the beloved cathedral–our AT&T Park–adds 10 degrees all on its own. Spring and Summer (Fall, too, from time to time) in the City means Giants baseball: freedom and giddiness, hot dogs and beer, none of the rules of school or work. Games dot the audio-visual landscape as you pass by bars or hop in a cab. When you get home from a long day and turn on the TV, Mike Krukow and and Duane Kuiper’s voices drift into the consciousness, a warm meal for the tired soul seeking the quiet rhythm of the greatest pastime. Our boys become household names on a first-name basis (Matt, Timmy, Buster), sometimes a nick-name basis (MadBum, Panda)…sure, last names, too (Pence, Romo, Pagan). We invite our ragtag bunch into our homes night after night, because they are our champions, our brothers, our friends. The City embraces these men, because they represent us so well. Living and dying through their long season, our struggles and joys become united in the way that only baseball enables. Just as we move about our day, regular San Franciscans, our Giants go to work everyday. The opportunity to come together for a game seems like a family dinner–sharing our day, participating in something together.

Whether due to a cultural shift or recent success, the Giants have a stranglehold on this wonderful place. Just as the passing of the seasons, we will welcome football’s return after a time, but a season increasingly favored by San Franciscans will soon make its appearance: Spring, heralded by Orange, Black, and garlic fries.