Michelle, if she could, would walk around the circumference of the Promenade level and order one of each item from every concession; she would then eat about five percent of each offering, carry seventy-five percent of it home, and throw the rest away. We managed to get by today with a brisket sandwich, a hot dog, ice cream, popcorn, and chicken tenders (to be fair, the tenders and half the brisket were my responsibility). The peanuts we brought in remained untouched, ship’s biscuit on a long journey held in reserve. Maybe I’ll get to them tomorrow.

We spent the bottom of the fourth inning walking around getting food. The Giants spent it scoring, all of which we missed. As soon as we left our seats – like, ten seconds after we left the arcade – there were, in quick succession, a home run, a single, a double, a sacrifice fly, an out, and two singles. When we got back to our seats, the score was 4-0 Giants, and we were told we should probably go away again. We did not.

The two women sitting next to us were overjoyed about the scoring, but one of them – I should have asked her name – deflated when Ross Stripling came in to pitch. She was right, too; four Kansas City runs later, her doomsaying was validated, and the Giants ended up losing 6-5. A late rally – bases loaded with no outs – comes to nothing. As we watch Giants fail one by one to push a run across, I have this conversation with the guy standing behind me:

None of those things happens. It’s a disappointing loss, but one that falls into the “Yep, that’s going to happen sometimes” category. It’s too early to start a “Goddammit, every time” category, but there’s a long way to go still.

On the bright side, it was Two Flaps Down hat day. It wasn’t quite cold enough to make a warm hat necessary, but free hats are my favorite ballpark perk. I have literally dozens, and the goofier they are, the better. This one was your average run-of-the-mill hunter’s cap, but it’s Michelle’s first and her delight in it – she wore it all day in spite of the mostly sunny sky – was enough to palliate the sting of the loss.

On our way out, Michelle points out that there are two unopened Modelo beers in our section – someone bought them for friends who didn’t show up and then left them. I don’t want them, Michelle doesn’t want them, the Stripling-haters don’t want them, the ushers don’t want them. There is something in my soul, though, that won’t let me leave something behind if somebody somewhere might like it. I took them out of the park, tried to give them to my friend Ken, who it turns out doesn’t drink beer, and ended up offering them to one of the bacon-wrapped hot dog cart guys at the Marina Gate. I didn’t really look at him before I held them out, but after he accepted them gratefully I did take note of the fact that he might, with a generous estimate and a following wind, have been seventeen years old.

Enjoy your beers, son.

• 1 October: Farewells and Almosts
• 30 September: For the Love of God, Max Muncy
• 29 September: Flower Mary Child Lavender Blossom
• 27 September: Junk Time
• 26 September: Mathematically