Ah, the joys of hitting a ballgame to enjoy our hometown World Series champs.
At night.
On a weekday.
With kids.
Via Muni.
Accompanied by the original Steve-o.
And every sack of rotting fish in America.
Yes, an adventure it was. Memories piled up, as fast and furious as the stream of expletives from our bleacher-seat compadres, as we watched the Pirates pillage and plunder the Giants (no sign of Captain Jack Sparrow, though we did spot ten naked people, a grown man in a Mexican wrestler mask and a Silicon Valley CEO we used to know making out with a bimbo on the Kissy Cam).
First off, I should say I approached this game as an experiment in saying "yes" to the kids instead of my usual response to their pleas for consumer "experiences" (er, "no"). My pre-emptive capitulation must have shined off me like a beacon, because by the time we departed for downtown, my offspring had reached a fevered pitch of avarice that began with Nicholson-tinged demands for cotton candy and ended with Darth Vader-esque utterances on the pleasures of $100 jerseys, $20 panda hats and $8 hot chocolate. Fuck you and your 40K tax return, Mom -- we'll have this stadium and eat it, too!
I was briefly cheered to see our neighbor Marilyn Ferrucci on Muni. Marilyn is in her late 70s, has season tickets, gout, a walker and a collection of Swedish Giants fan trolls so powerful, they glare at you if you dare stroll between them and their view of left field. Marilyn is awesome.
The Trip Planner told me to take the J to the 30 Stockton line to spare us the endless wait for the T line to the ballpark. It all sounded so sensible at the time. What Mr. Google doesn't know is that every Chinese granny from here to Canton has just shopped for fish, lugged a 20-lb sack of gutted carp onto the bus and merrily decamped for the Avenues, leaving behind briny, viscous puddles that prompted the same immediate response from every poor wretch who had the misfortune to board: What the holy fuck is that smell?!?!
We managed to get to the ballpark without puking. Zev said he was hungry, oh, 543 times or so. Lulu dropped her bracelet in the fish pond. I stuffed my muffin top back in my mom jeans and fantasized about hot dads and Irish coffee.
Lo and behold, Gabe and my pop (the inimitable worker's comp attorney and youth soccer coach Steve-o) were waiting for us under the palms in Willie Mays Plaza. Somebody had finally taken hedge-clippers to Steve-o Wolverine-style, midlife-crisis pompadour, resulting in an unfortunate fade + mullet that only looks good on teen rappers with gold teeth or actors on "The Wire." Gabe looked handsome and rested, which made me think he was either on drugs or having an affair with a coworker. Hmm.
I immediately relinquished the children's sweaty hands and checked Facebook.
Steve-o brought his "special" seats. Why invest in new travel seat technology when you have vintage plastic foam seat pads advertising nefarious apartheid-era multinational banking giants? So what if they're full of moldy water, which has emerged from said pads like a nervous vole seeking freedom, bowing to the pressure of our fat asses and created a river running down all of row 21 of section 136, soaking (and freezing) the butts of all who dared rest their poor unsuspecting asses there? Are you a real fan or a wuss?
The cigarette-cured, sun-baked tribe from Antioch was a breath of fresh, gin-soaked air, swept in from the far reaches of the East Bay like a lost tribe who still remembered how to smoke, make racist, sexist remarks and sneak food into overpriced public spaces (I did notice they were City enough to sneak in sushi, though it was from Safeway). They hollered and grumbled. They scratched their asses and traded tips on not pissing off the ex to the point where stabbing-by-bottle-opener was imminent. They patiently explained to us citified dumbfucks why they hid their faces every time Aubrey Huff (Aww, Be In the Buff) was up to bat (because they were season ticket holders and clearly were under some sort of batting curse that had affected ABITB's swing). I gave them a pass when they screamed "cocksucker!" and "motherfucker!" in the kids' ears because they were recovering from a (failed) stab at Jenny Craig. I especially appreciated that they told me about the secret underground bunker women's bathroom, though I suspect they were more concerned about my beer intake and possible bladder failure that might result in me impeding their view.
Lulu was mad at me from the 7th inning stretch till the end of the game, because I had the gall to tease her during the Kissing Cam, suggesting she might stand a better chance of, as she had gushed, "getting on TV" if she kissed the little blond boy in front of us in advance of appearing on-screen. Observing the kidlets' twin moues of horror and disgust, tears, quivering lips, and mitts raised to shield tender gazes, I could almost forgive everyone around us, who glared at me as if I had suggested they fornicate with donkeys. Stupid fuckers -- I planned to save that gem for the bottom of the 9th as a last-ditch meltdown-averter.
Our Gigantes stunk up the place. I mean, Christ, Vogelsong, pitch much? Still, I was happy to be an American last night and proud to be a San Franciscan. I love baseball and its proximity to beer. My kids are junior Darth Vaders and my husband has not gone to fat. My dad's a hoot and thinks nothing of watching the game from a slide in a giant Coke bottle. It's all good. The end.
0 comments:
Post a Comment