Contest Pig

I've been thinking a lot about my days in college radio recently.

I don't know why, exactly. Maybe 'cause, you know, I'm old... maybe 'cause I just found myself with $38 credit at Amoeba Records and I spent it on a limited edition Sonic Youth CD and an import of a Smithereens CD... which means, you know, I'm old.

Maybe it's because old terminology for careers long gone seems fresher and more alive than the jargon I juggle for what I do now. Maybe that's what aging is in the new millenium: we don't remember our lives more vividly... just our jobs.

Yeah, so, to backsell: we went to a Giants game yesterday.

Nancy is much-respected and deservingly much-beloved at work, so as a reward for a job very well done, they gave her Giants tickets for the game this Mother's Day. We know nothing about baseball, and less about the Giants, but even we could figure out that seats 6 rows right behind home plate are pretty damn good. I mean, people in burgundy shirts come and take your food orders, scurry quickly away... and then? Then they come back almost immediately with the food you ordered. Sure, you can go to the exclusive clubhouse, or go to the only-a-little-less-exclusive dining areas in the bowels of ATT Park where the players' locker rooms are... but why? Why do that when a friendly middle-aged guy with a ponytail will bring you MGD and licorice just because you want it, and don't want to miss when Barry bats?

I know lots of people enjoy baseball. I know a lot of them actually understand baseball. I know I'm not one of them. I know Sunday rocked anyway, 'cause my wife gave us a day in the sun, and I ate a hot dog while foul balls rained down on us in cue burned grooves. You could hear the "SHHH-SHHHHHHHH" they whispered as they fell to the dirty concrete that surrounded us, and the only thing surer than the fact some 10-year old would catch one? Another 10-year old would get another chance soon enough.

That, though, is the thing about me and baseball. I can't be bothered to give half a shit about the game of baseball... but damned if the baseball mythos doesn't play me like a harp from Cooperstown. Unless I'm watching The Natural, or Field of Dreams, I just don't get the game... and even then? Then I only get it 'cause some dickwad LA writer has figured out my emotional pressure points and combined "freshly-mowed grass" and "distant yet loving father" so's to leave me weeping when the game's won -or not even played- just so long as we toss a few and pretend we know what WHIP and ERA mean while that girl with the long hair and a quiet smile brings us tea and gazes knowingly into the sun while it sets sleepily behind the backstop. This manipulative, hamfisted undertone acts as a bed for these films... and damn if they don't lure me in and make me call my dad as the credits roll every time.

So Sunday was cool, and wonderful, and weird... and not without miscues. Not the least of which were each of Barry Bonds' turns at bat... and watching hime go 0-3.

It was weird to watch. I mean, love him or hate him, the guy's a denatured force of nature. Want him to pass Babe Ruth on the home run roster or not, well, you wanna' be there to see it, right? So it was surreal to sit there, and watch even Dodgers fans cheer Barry on in the hope that they'd go home a little part of history.

It was also weird to not understand why the Dodgers were reluctant to throw to him. Obviously I get it on paper... but in practice? Sitting there anticipating the crack of the bat and the release of the pigeons? Made no sense to me. Didn't they understand he was going for a record, and just two home runs away from surmounting a once -and still mostly- insurmountable obstacle? Only two guys before Bonds have hit 714 home runs in what? A bajillion years of baseball? That's pretty impressive, right? So why on Earth wouldn't the Dodgers' pitcher throw to Barry in the 1st inning? Is the guy just a dick? This one game can't be more important than the legacy, right? I don't claim to understand, or even much care, but still, it was damn frustrating to watch 'em walk Barry that inning. Almost as frustrating as it was incomprehensible that they even considered walking him in his next two trips to the plate. I mean, come on... he's clearly got batting issues. If it's the stress or the heat or what, I don't know... but that did not look like a guy who's an ass hair away from passing Babe Ruth in the record books.

While we're discussing things I don't get, what's the deal with the "7th Inning Stretch?" It's like the daypart of the baseball world, right? Some arbitrary -but no less important- divvying of the day? But why the 7th inning? And what is the stretch? Is it the "stretch" of the legs? Did they always sing God Bless America during it... 'cause that was a little creepy, and it really didn't help my circulation any. And you know, it's hardly effective as a stretch. It's no longer than any of the other breaks while the teams switch sides, so it's no easier to stretch your legs then during any other mid-inning, and since it's no longer of a break it hardly qualifies as "stretch" in duration. And what's the deal with mitts? And why do I suddenly sound like Jerry Seinfeld?

Anyway, it was a great day. The Giants lost, but no one seemed surprised. We got to park for free a mere four blocks from the ballpark despite some kid at a pay lot taking us for suburban rubes and trying to trick us into not parking at a free meter. We enjoyed what can only be called "the best breakfast ever" before the game and crossed the Bay Bridge with almost no difficulty after the game. All that, and for once we remembered to bring the camera.* Lookee:

Nancy's gauntlet: condiment cart after condiment cart.

Nancy bravely running her gauntlet on the super-exclusive club level. She's smiling at Huey Lewis!

The field, from club level.

Our seats are 6 rows back from the Oracle banners. We're not in them; don't bother looking.

The view from our seats. That's Barry Bonds, not hitting a ball.

*Tell me I can't still hit the post.