I never claim to know squat about basketball since I’m a football girl at heart. Season comes around and my twitter transforms to that of a frat guy with opinions welling deep from within his loins.

Regardless — I may be a longtime resident of San Diego and a prideful California girl at heart, but roots-wise?

I did grow up in Chicago.

3758 N Bernard St.

My parents owned the top floor, and it was my home for over 2 years. I attended John B Murphy Elementary School down the block, and my father? Well to say the least, he was/is a diehard Bulls fan.

I grew up watching the games back when the dream team was Jordan, Pippen, and Rodman. Watched and listened intently as my father beamed in pride while he schooled me on the coaching prowess of a man named Phil Jackson. Giggled in amazement and awe as legendary plays were made. I was 7 years old, new to the United States, and eager to learn more about the culture that surrounded me. I learned by observing. I grew from adapting. I felt the excitement when the season came around. When the leaves turned red, so did the population’s attire.

Subways were littered with people in jerseys, jackets, hats, gloves, shoes, accessories — everything laced in Bulls memorabilia. My father would adorn the living room with signed copies of ‘Bull’shit to commemorate and emulate his pride. Of course, my mother smirked at his manly antics, but she always smiled silently as her husband turned their baby girl into a tomboy of sorts. Like father, like son? Naw - like father, like daughter.

He bought me miniature Bulls attire and took me to a few games. He screamed along with the entire crowd and encouraged me to do the same. He purchased high-priced tickets and treated me to the finest view — partially because he was a Filipino man that stood 5’3, and I was a 7 year old girl that stood slightly above most belly buttons. I remember feeling intimidated by the height of the people around us, but relaxed when I saw my father’s composure and demeanor. His stance epitomized his wealth. His aura read that of a business man (with a spoiled daughter by his side). He stood with such confidence, no one questioned the area of our seating. Two short, filipino beings amongst an area of rich black&white folk — blending in as if our heights and skin-tone didn’t matter.

My father bred and raised me to be a Bulls fan, a Bears Fan, and a Cubs fan. Though I moved to San Diego, I always go back to my roots and remember the days when I’d enjoy a snow-day(week).

I miss the windy city, and I try to visit every year. I may be a SoCal girl — but I will always be a city girl at heart. I mean, come on, who doesn’t love subways that reek of urine, days off of school due to massive snowfalls, layers upon layers, REAL downtown, rich culture, Chi-town accents, deepdish, gloves, yellow snow, gray snow, black snow — damn, I could rant forever.

But in all honesty, San Diego has no basketball team, and as much as I love the Bulls, I grew up. It’s hard to watch alone — I have a short attention span, and I’d rather spend my time doing other things. It was an activity I shared with my father and perhaps an activity I’ll share & respect with my future significant other, but ‘til then, it’s quite rare that you’d find me screaming about a basketball game (unless I bought tickets, and I’m watching it with the homies live)

However, realtalk though: I may no longer follow basketball, but I will call a bitch out if she claims to be a Bulls fan without knowing her stats, players (aside from Rose, cunt), and history. Don’t claim it to impress the boys, honey. Most see right through your googled info. Become a fan because of the pride in the team. Wins, losses, good days, bad days — FANS stick like cooked pasta to a wall. So just because you have a jersey, a snapback, and some basic ass knowledge — Think twice before I take your ass seriously.