By: Lauren Spagnoletti

“Come on! There’s winnahs and losahs!” the older man yelled at the team of 4-year-old soccer players on the field.

“Dad! You can’t do that here. He’ll get thrown outta the league,” said little Sal’s father.

Their accents were unmistakable. Jersey, no doubt. My people.

On that morning of junior soccer in my new southern city, I found a tiny piece of home.

It wasn’t the first time.

Every day, a new person crosses my path with that northern attitude, that city accent. We’re everywhere. We’ve infiltrated the south.

Now with my smoked pork, I get a side of Jersey.

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