On the way out of the MUNI train to meet Paul, I overhear a woman say to her companion “And then it turned out he had a human arm!” On reflection, she was probably describing a dream, but I kind of prefer to think she’d been pleasantly surprised by a robot.
Paul looks like what you’d get if you crossed Hagrid with Santa Claus. He’s big and jovial, but calm and present without being overbearing. One of my favorite things about him – a trait I hope I also present – is that, as much as anyone I have ever met, he is interested in people. He is willing to have, on zero acquaintance, a conversation with anyone about anything; he gets plenty of chances, as he has showed up to the game in a Savannah Bananas jersey (if you don’t know about the Savannah Bananas, go to Tiktok or Youtube or Instagram or wherever you get your short comedy videos; it’s worth your time).
Paul is that most wonderful item, a Dodger fan whose girlfriend is a Giants fan; he’s so used to his trash talking coming from a place of love that his entire attitude toward the rivalry is easygoing and lighthearted. Paul has been to a few games with me back in 2019, when he had one of the ballpark passes and could stop in on a moment’s notice. One of my favorite things about being a regular at the ballpark is that people always know where I’m going to be, and every few games I get a hand on my shoulder and turn around to see a friendly face come to visit; Paul’s was always especially welcome.
Aside from just being a great conversationalist and a good companion, Paul and I used to work together, and he gave me the job I had from 2005 until 2020 – the longest-lasting and most enjoyable position I ever had. I got to sit at a desk and write, and it happened because Paul was the kind of guy who was interested in the people he worked with. We talked at the game about that company, the people who worked there, and what it had done for us in our lives. I have, by and large, better memories of it than he does, but I was less important than he was and he had a lot more responsibility, so it’s not surprising that my days were more carefree than his.
Paul remembered to put on sunscreen today, but I didn’t, and after the game I have a kind of raccoony look going on, burnt red on the western side of my face with pale lines where the earpieces of my glasses protected me. Paul mentions that the worst thing about sunburns for him is taking a shower later and feeling the water burn, and I tell him that’s my equivalent of scourging myself the way a medieval monk might – feeling the burn on my neck and shoulders so I can cringe with penitence and regret; my mom,* I think, was disappointed that Catholic shame wasn’t a bigger influence on me in my life – if your ghost is around paying attention, mom, at least know I have some aptitude for doing penance. (On second thought, please don’t watch me in the shower.)
Oh, the game? Finally, a late rally pays off – although the game is mostly uneventful, a close play at the plate as Bryce Johnson scores on a Wilmer Flores double, followed by a homer from Michael Conforto to make it 3-1 in the eighth, which score holds up for the win, sealed by a double play to finish up the top of the ninth. As my sister said. when I told her about it, “Go Mets!”
* Speaking of mom, today would have been her 85th birthday. This year is the first that I’ve paid for my own tickets for the season, but I doubt I would have been here if it hadn’t been for her extending Kevin’s gift. Happy birthday, mom.
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