For those who didn’t know, I’m a homegrown Californian. Yes, I’m one of those exotic specimens from beyond the Rockies, where people surf to school, nerds are the kings of cool and of course it’s sunny all year round. Unluckily, I’m part of the “uncool” part of California. I call San Francisco home –– you know, the other big city in California? Yeah, the one with the hippies and a mayor with more sex scandals than Bill Clinton in his prime –– yes, that one.

I’m a Giants fan, which means that I’ve settled for the fact that my team is going to suck for 20 years, get my hopes up in October and then fail me once again. I’m one step above a Chicago Cubs fan, a torture that only the Devil could come up with.

As any true Giants fan will tell you, the Giants are “building” towards another playoff bid after our mercenary of a team broke up after they choked in the World Series. Who can blame them; if they continued to live in San Francisco they probably would have ended up like Barry Bonds, a sour aftertaste of what once was a delectable blueberry scone (probably from that clear liquid the trainer rubbed on it; he calls it the “special” sauce). I’m sure Barry knows what I mean.

Giants fans haven’t had much to care about recently; we’re a pretty cynical bunch. Bonds was actually the one thing we could pride ourselves on, in that “our guy has got more stuff running through his system than a crack addict” kind of way. He did make San Francisco look good; well, until he made us look like idiots.

The one thing you could always count on Bonds for was a good choke. A big swing and a miss right at the opportune moment to get fans heading home and sending San Francisco back to the dugout with another loss.

The choke is an integral part of sport. When I choke on my Organic Chemistry prelim, the only people who know are me, and every prying premed that is ready to pick at the scraps of my corpse. When you choke on the professional stage, it’s not easily forgotten, and the punishment is about as maniacal as it gets.

If you’re a self-respecting citizen of Boston, you know who Bill Buckner is. In fact, just reading that name probably will make you lose control, slip back into that trashy New England accent and say, THAT ASSHOLE, YEAH I KNOW HIM. Bill Buckner, that idiot who choked in the 9th inning and let the Mets steal Boston’s World Series championship. Bill Buckner, the guy who couldn’t field a simple ground ball. Bill Buckner, the last straw in what was really an all-out choke for the Red Sox franchise, not just a lone, arthritic first baseman. By the time Buckner was given the golden opportunity to screw up, Boston had already given up its sizeable lead. But nobody will ever forget Bill Buckner. Bill Buckner promptly escaped to Idaho after his baseball career was over, though some accounts have him being chased by a mob of angry Irish to the one place they dare not go. Idaho is the land of potatoes, the birthplace of Sarah Palin and home of Bill Buckner. Sounds like a place I should visit.

One major choke who seems to have avoided assassination by fans is Brett Favre. Maybe it’s because making fun of senior citizens is morally questionable, or the fact that he skips town the second things go sour, but Brett Favre still plays football. This weekend he took down the 49ers in what has been run over and over on ESPN as the drive to end all drives. Favre’s skill with the football in the last 30 seconds of a crucial game can only be matched by his carelessness in the first 59:30. Favre has racked up 311 interceptions in his career –– compare that to 88 for Tom Brady. But nobody seems to see this, except cynical reporters, like myself.

So why is Bill Buckner never going to be forgiven and why is Brett Favre going to be lauded as a Hall of Fame quarterback? Well, have you ever seen Bill Buckner? The man has a mustache that could go down as the biggest mistakes in facial hair history. Picture a mid-sized guy with slicked back brown hair and two squirrel tails coming off his lower lip. The first thing that comes to my mind is: sketchy man who claims he sells candy out of his nondescript white truck. On the other hand, Brett Favre has always been a good ol’ Southern boy who’s aged gracefully. He’s old, gray, arthritic and yet he can still sneak a quickie with those Viking cheerleaders. So what’s the key to not being remembered as a choke? Don’t be ugly.