Steighton is one of those guys who has already thought it through. He’d rather be riding a motorcycle, but he comes in on the ferry because he’d rather do that than BART. I usually get to my seats by about a half hour before first pitch in order to watch the crowd come in and the guys laying down the chalk lines and the other guys hosing down the field and then listening to the national anthem – in spite of how much I like to complain about it, I do like to listen – but the ferry is the ferry; time and tide and the Blue and Gold Fleet wait for no man. It’s been a little while since I made it in that early anyway. Tonight is no exception, but it’s okay. I’m jazzed to have Steighton here; he is one of a few people I have decided it would be a good idea to be friends with as a matter of choice instead of circumstance, and even though he is manifestly not a baseball guy, he is smart and interesting – one of those people whose conversational remit is seemingly without limit, who you can point in any direction and he will keep you entertained and engaged without hogging the mic.
It’s his first professional baseball game, but he knows enough about the sport to heckle convincingly, talk about a snappy fastball, and complain accurately about a muffed double play. I get the feeling he could speak with the same confidence if we were watching football, boxing, curling, goat hockey, whatever. He played soccer as a kid in Michigan, which surprises me – we didn’t even really have soccer at the Sacramento private school I went Sacramento, which so desperately wanted to be a British public school that we had a headmaster and like five kids per class (looking back on it, I’m kind of surprised I didn’t end up best friends with Rudyard Kipling or Richard Francis Burton), and which should have been on top of the coming soccer boom, which is still kind of coming. I would have thought Michigan would be American football country, but according to Steighton, not so much.
It’s Mexican Heritage night, but I miss a lot of the pregame stuff because a) we come in a little late and b) I was waiting on the opposite side of the park from where they do things outside; I did, however, buy the special event item, which is an extremely comfortable item of clothing that I am ashamed to admit that I don’t know the exact name of; eBay sellers call it, variously, a shirt, a poncho, a serape, and a jorongo, which is the one I think is probably right. It’s big and soft and it has armholes and a head hole. On the way up to get it (a journey on which Steighton accompanies me in order to keep up his end of an exercise-based deal with his knee doctor), we ride up in the 2d Street elevator with a small family, a guy headed for the Club level, and Larry Baer, who presses the button for the third deck after the elevator attendant mysteriously disappears. I am the only one in the elevator who recognizes the owner of the team, and as the door closes on the Club level, I say “They’ve got you running the elevators now?” He looks back and says “Yeah, I do all kinds of things around here,” and I say “Probably best to maximize your value to the organization.” He laughs a little, nods, and gets out on the suite level with a quick “Have a good game,” exchange, and I am left feeling like I did after I called my boss at Gamelink ‘ace’ except about seventeen times more so.
In a different elevator, on the way down, it is Steighton’s great pleasure to first be very courteous to a pair of Cleveland fans by ushering them in before we board and then, when they remark on the kindnesses shown them by San Francisco fans, to inform them that he only consented to come to a Guardians game because the team formerly known as the Indians changed their mascot. They make the mistake of sighing and saying “Oh, we loved Chief Wahoo,” which frees Steighton up to tell them that he’s a quarter Native American and he’s glad the Cleveland organization stopped being so racist, which makes them extremely uncomfortable. Fortunately for everyone, the elevator arrives at the Concourse level just in time for them to not have to defend their belief (I am absolutely positive that they were about to say this) that Chief Wahoo was not a racist mascot and that the Indians was not a racist name. They struck me as the kind of people who would say that right after a school shooting is not the time to discuss gun control. I guess this is what you get for allowing unlimited interleague play.
Later, Steighton and I exchange app ideas; not only is his better than mine, his ideas about mine are better than my ideas about mine. But he works for SalesForce, which has to give you some kind of juice when it comes to ideas like that (I should note that his would actually help people do things, whereas mine is just a goofy idea). A little after that, Steve and Eleanor come by for a visit, and we spend a pleasant half hour socializing while Steve stalwartly stands with his back to the field; the risk of foul balls here is very low, but I don’t tell him that; it’s more fun to let him think he’s being brave. I am reminded of the kid a couple of days ago who said to his dad “If a ball comes toward me, you be ready to catch it, okay?” I am ready to catch the ball for Steve.
The Giants lose this one, 3-1.
What Did You think of the Evening, Steighton?
81 Dates 