I've always been an outlier when it comes to "hometown pride." You know that unspoken, often loudly proclaimed, obligation to pledge unwavering allegiance to the city you were born in or currently call home? Yeah, I've never quite grasped it. In fact, I find it a little… manufactured.
Take sports, for instance. Being from Los Angeles, there’s this bizarre, almost cult-like expectation that I should bleed purple and gold, scream for the Dodgers, buy the jerseys, and generally lose my mind for any team bearing an L.A. moniker. If I’m at a game, the default setting is that I must be cheering wildly for my city’s team, no matter what.
But here's where my skepticism kicks in: the vast majority of players on these supposed "local" teams aren't even from Los Angeles. They're mercenaries, highly paid professionals who will play for whoever offers the biggest contract. Their connection to the city begins and ends with a multi-million-dollar deal. And as soon as that contract is up, any feigned loyalty vanishes faster than a free hot dog coupon.
So, I’m expected to lavish unconditional love and financial support – by buying tickets, merchandise and paying for streaming services – on a group of people who are, by and large, completely unconnected to my city, save for the name on their uniform, and whose primary allegiance is to their bank account. Am I supposed to be grateful they chose my city as their temporary high-paying workplace? It feels less like pride and more like a high-stakes corporate sponsorship I'm coerced into funding.
This same peculiar phenomenon extends to the concert circuit, too.
You’ve been there: the superstar, after the first three songs of an otherwise generic set, leans into the mic and belts out, "How are you doing, LOS ANGELES?!" And the crowd goes absolutely ballistic. A collective, guttural roar erupts as if the Messiah himself has descended to grace us with his presence. Why? Because the singer just uttered the name of our city? Are we truly losing our minds because an artist has heard of us before and taken 0.5 seconds to acknowledge where they currently are? (And do we trust they didn't have to look at a cheat sheet taped to the back of the guitar that says, "Los Angeles" to remind them?)
Let's be real. Somewhere in a sterile office, a manager, a promoter, or a savvy marketer penciled that into the setlist. That city name – our city name – was identified as a revenue opportunity. A way to connect, to flatter, to make us feel special, and ultimately, to sell more tickets, more merch, more experiences. They saw us as revenue, plain and simple. And yet, when that moment arrives, fans who have likely overpaid for a ticket (and the stupid ones who paid for a "meet and greet" to stand beside the artist for all of, what, 7 seconds for a staged photo) react as if it's some distinct honor that "Mediocre Singer and the LipSyncs" has deigned to visit their town, right now, and said its name. Eeeeeeeek! Seriously, spare me the performative adoration. It’s a trick, and we fall for it every time.
Both scenarios – the sports team and the concert shout-out – rely on a carefully constructed illusion of connection. They leverage the inherent desire for belonging, for shared identity and for feeling seen. But strip away the roar of the crowd and the flashing lights, and what are you left with? A business model. A transactional relationship disguised as genuine affinity. It's a manufactured group identity designed to open our wallets, not necessarily to foster any real sense of civic pride or personal connection.
So, no, I don't "understand" hometown pride in the way it's often presented or aggressively marketed.
I appreciate genuine community, local businesses and the unique culture of a place. But this unthinking, unwavering loyalty demanded by professional sports franchises or concert promoters, simply because they've slapped our city’s name on their product or tour itinerary? That's a bridge too far for me. Perhaps it’s time we all paused and critically asked: are we truly feeling a deep, organic sense of pride, or are we just reacting on cue to a well-rehearsed, profitable script? For me, the answer is often the latter, and it's a script I'm no longer buying.