Innings One Through Three: Mission Girlz
The game has already begun and I’m still standing in line at the Doggie Diner.
Or is it the Derby Grill? Is there a difference? I’ll bet they’re both owned by the same weapons manufacturer that owns the Giants (that’s a joke, I hope), making huge pots of money by bombing civilians like Kimberly and Ariana with unholy amounts of sugars, sodiums, nitrates and other chemical concoctions no god ever contemplated. Kimberly, who’s in high school, has taken care of the dog a lot this summer, so in partial return I offered her and her 8-year-old cousin Ariana tickets to a game ($50). I figure if I get the “food” out of the way, the girls can concentrate on baseball. Chili corn dogs ($15), fries ($10), soft drinks ($10).
While waiting, I watch one of many TV monitors set up so fans don’t miss any of the action; in this case, two Cubs getting on base after barely making contact with the ball. Seems surreal looking at the little screen, listening to the disembodied voices of Mike Krukow and John Miller drone on about what’s going on just behind the food stand.
By the time we’ve taken our seats in the 10th row, section 311 of the View Deck, the Cubs lead 2-0 and Matt Cain, as blond and stolid as always, is still pitching away; fastballs, curveballs, sliders and changeups, Matt’s got them all, but none of them work. Are we worried? “No,” says Kimberly. “My favorite player is Matt Cain.” No, agrees Ariana. Yes, I say, explaining that I am an eternal pessimist when it comes to professional sports, a tragic outlook inherited from a long line of clockwatchers.
Kimberly is looking at the program ($10); Ariana plays Anger Birds on an iPod (or listens to a band called Anger Birds on an iPhone); Pablo Sandoval triples! Triples off the Bank of America sign in right center, 421 feet away. Kimberly says the Panda is her favorite player. At the end of three, the Cubs are out in front by one run, and the boys sitting in front of us keep turning around to gawk at Kimberly and Ariana.
Innings Four Through Six: Hot Dog Nation
Cain’s concentration keeps misfiring: He bears down, then lets up, getting big hitters out while letting little guys work him over. For example, two outs in the top of the fourth with two Cubs lucky to be on base. Randy Wells, the pitcher—and not a particularly good hitting pitcher—knocks the dirt out of his spikes, and before Cain can think about what he’s doing, Wells hits a double and another Cub has come home. This, I instruct the girls, shows the kind of mental toughness it takes to pitch at this level.
Which is nothing compared to the gastric toughness it takes to eat at this level. According to a recent article in the New York Times, baseball fans are expected to swallow 26.3 million hot dogs and sausages at major-league parks this season. In many parks, hot dogs make up roughly 10 percent of food and beverage sales, and remain the clear fan favorite over trendier and ostensibly more “health-conscious” foods. The Times quotes an NYU associate professor who believes a hot dog and light beer might be the best option “from a calorie perspective.” I bet he can’t say the same for chili corn dogs.
It’s a question I want to discuss with the girls, but Pat Burrell hits a solo home run; then Pablo Sandoval hits a solo home run; then (the next inning) Pat Burrell hits another home run, not solo but grand slam! Kimberly, Ariana, me and 40,000 other people jump out of our seats, wave our hands frantically, whistle, cheer and stomp. The show stops for Burrell to take a bow, like a diva who just finished a popular but challenging aria. Counting last night, that’s three arias in his last four at-bats; not bad. “Let’s hear the fans criticize Sabean for favoring veterans now,” says the biophysicist whose boys keep turning to look at the girls. At the end of six, Giants lead 7-3; this game is history.
I forgot to say that the sun came out and the ballpark’s ablaze. Sun in San Francisco. Imagine that.
Innings Seven Through Nine: Another Hithcock Ending
The boys in front of us go off to the playground behind the bleachers. I get the feeling the girls are getting bored with the game, so I buy them each an ice cream ($9) and a Giants’ hat ($50) before I leave them to their own devices.
My own devices include watching Giant relievers Chris Ray, Javier Lopez, Guillermo Mota and Sergio Romo allow the Cubs four runs to tie the game. At first the players are in as much agonized denial as the crowd. But in the bottom of the ninth they break out of it, led by much-maligned Aaron Rowand, whose unconventional head-first dive into first base leads to bases loaded, one out, and Andres Torres (“my favorite player” reads a text from Kimberly) will pinch hit for Brian Wilson.
Bruce Bochy kept Torres on the bench because of a “tightness” in his legs. No tightness now as he steps to the plate; check out his bat speed! Cubs pitcher Andrew Cashner throws three screaming fastballs, but only the last one, at 98 mph, gets into the strike zone. That’s the pitch Torres nails, and the ball sails over centerfielder Tyler Colvin, bouncing into the bleachers, scoring Aaron Rowand and winning the game for the Giants, 8-7.
On my way home I pick up the dog, who went to day camp because Kimberly was at the game. $40. That should count, since I didn’t pay for parking. “I figure I spent about $140 or $150, camp included,” I tell the dog. “Do you think you’re worth it?” The numbers fail to make an impression. “Consider the quality of the experience,” he grumbles, “the drama, the artistry and so forth.”
No need to hype the Giants this weekend. The Padres come to town with first place in the National League West on the line.
