Men’s Wearhouse – as my roommate had predicted – did not have an orange tie. Ross (a little surprisingly) did not have an orange tie. The pimp store on Market Street, however, had a different answer when I asked “Would you happen to have such a thing as an orange tie?” They had one, and only one. “Is there a refund policy on this?” Even as I asked I knew the answer, at the same time knowing I would never ever return this particular tie. “No,” I was told. “It’s like a car: you buy it, you own it.” The tie, magically, was the exact same color as the inside of my Giants jacket. It could not have been a better orange. You can go disastrously wrong with orange, but it was the perfect shade to add to my black slacks, black shirt, and the glitter-infused mostly black yacket that I got from Efrain years ago at the zoot suit store on Mission. I topped it all off with a replica vintage 1915 New York Giants cap.

You don’t get an invitation to the Gotham Club every day – at least I don’t – so I was making this count. Dress for the job you want, we are told. The job I want – and I was well north of fifty when I figured this out – Is “eccentric millionaire who wanders around giving people things the want but haven’t actually asked for but not taking credit,” and I figured the outfit I was putting together to go to the Giants’ (sort-of) secret, fancy (if I had anything to say about it), exclusive (exclusive, no joke) speakeasy club might turn some heads.

It did. No fewer than four people in the hour before the game asked me if I was going to be singing the national anthem (my response to those people, in order: 1) “Ha ha – no!” 2) “I wish!” 3) “Believe me, you don’t want to hear that!” and 4) “Yes I am!”). It does not matter that on reflection, I looked like a cross between a game show host and a team owner trying to look cool in a baseball cap – I felt snappy, and that carried me through the day. I have spent some serious time and energy trying to acquire a wardrobe that a seventy-year-old black man going to a Sunday afternoon church service in Oakland would be proud to choose from, and the number of fist-bumps I got through the course of the afternoon made me feel like I have succeeded in at least one thing, however small, in my life.

There are several sections to the Gotham Club – first and second coolest, a bar and restaurant; second and first coolest, a game room on the suite level with a pool table, a two-lane bowling alley, and a dartboard; and third and third coolest, a section near the home bullpen in left field in which one can get, if one arrives early, a view of the Giants pitchers warming up. The 415, in center field, is where the visiting pitchers warm up, and there is a long bar where you can stand and try to distract them, but the Giants have – probably wisely – severely limited the number of people who can both drink and talk to the pitching staff. I don’t think of myself as a prejudiced person, but I would also have strong objections to letting rich people interact with booze and my rotation at the same time.

I’m glad I was able to spend most of my baseball day exploring the Gotham Club – the game was a disaster, a 6-0 loss to the Cardinals; the only real bright spot on the field was Lars Nootbaar going two-for-five with a pair of singles. Off the field., though, I set the high score on the Galaga machine in the Gotham Club game room. Unlike my fastball, my Galaga skills have not changed in the last thirty years – I am still resolutely unspectacular, and I suspect that I was able to put my initials on the leaderboard only because it is turned off at night and back on in the morning. I didn’t bowl, didn’t play pool, and didn’t buy any fancy people food.

The best part of the Gotham experience was feeling like I was part of a secret; when you walk in, you get to say a code phrase, and the entrance to the game room on the suite level is a door marked with an innocuous label about electrical stuff. It’s very back-street speakeasy. Would I pay the (very high) fee to be a member, if I had the money? Maybe. There was a point where I was sitting in my seat and watching the game, and I knew I should go in and check out the fancy club – when was I going to get this chance again? – but I really didn’t want to leave the game. That’s how much I like being at a ball game, even a tough loss. A half hour inside is a half hour of no baseball, and with the new rules, that time is a significant chunk of the game. Being admitted to the inner sanctum was cool, though, like getting to meet Gabe Kapler for a Q&A in the locker room (December 2019), or taking a few batting practice swings and seeing my name on the scoreboard (October 2017). In spite of the fact that I spent no little time today scoffing at what rich people spend their money on, I think that if I could bring guests in and give them a little taste of that, it might be worth it.

• 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