It’s an unseasonably hot November afternoon. I’m dehydrated, a little buzzed, and downtown with a million other Houstonians, serenaded by Mike Jones and Lil Troy and celebrating the city as much as a baseball team. I saw people with Mexican soccer jerseys waving Mexican flags, without a thread of orange or blue, just being out here, being Houston. I feel fortunate to be a minority here, to be an observer, a participant, capturing moments while trying to remember to be grateful. This isn’t where I grew up. It’s not a city that looks, sounds, or acts like me. It’s an enigma, a riddle, a sweaty, spicy, screwed up place with an eternal underdog swagger. It has everything, but it can be hard to find anything. It’s equal parts blue and red, blue collar and white, progressive and traditional, rooted in culture and family history, but sparkling and new. A place where extremes and contradictions meet for a drink. Orange and blue.