I try to build in a hefty safety margin, timewise, when it comes to making my way to the park; you never know when there’s going to be a disaster on BART or MUNI (well, you know there is going to be one, but you never know which or how long it will last). I usually leave the East Bay in time to arrive at the park and hour before first pitch, and I try to schedule meeting people so that they have a cushion too, although I don’t always tell people about it – if you say you want then to be there at 6 but 615 would work, they will invariably show up at 630. Part of the cushion is so I will definitely get to hear the national anthem, and part of it is because I like to watch the crew set up the field and to watch the place fill up. Mostly this works out, but there are always exceptions – a car won’t start, someone works late, whatever. And then there are the people who take the ferry.
Shoshana took the ferry.
As I waited at the 2d Street gate for her to get here from the Ferry Building, foot tapping as the seconds ticked down, I reflected on the ferry. Yes, it’s much nicer than BART, but it takes you to basically the same place. Even the ones that come directly to the park arrive about ten minutes before first pitch, so people who come in from Alameda or Larkspur are going to be pushing my timetable, and the ones who come through the Ferry Building tack an extra twenty minutes onto that. I am not a man prone to letting frustration and anger take the helm, but as I hear the etiquette announcement from inside the park, and then the anthem, and then the (admittedly desultory) cheering for the ceremonial first pitch, I’m gritting my teeth and pursing my lips in a way that would make a certain set of people call me ‘small-mouth Justin’, and I’m getting tenser and tenser, and Shoshana is nowhere in sight, and then there’s a deep, sudden “Oooh!” from the crowd inside, and even though I don’t know exactly what it was (it was Kyle Harrison’s head-height first pitch pushing Steven Kwan off the plate) I know that it was something happening in the game, and now we are late.
And it’s all suddenly okay. We’re late. But we’re late to a baseball game. It’s a beautiful day, I’m going to spend three hours with a delightful little elf of a woman in one of my favorite places in all the world. We’ll win or we’ll lose (we’ll win), as we have for the last seventy-five games I’ve come to this year, and I will sit and watch the pitching and the hitting and the crowd, and I will have a great time. Once we’re actually late and there’s no more wondering about whether, there’s not point in being upset. All of the teeth-grinding and fist-clenching and toe-tapping evaporates and the only thing that’s left is peace and … not resignation, not even acceptance, just contentment with what I have instead of dissatisfaction with what I don’t.
When Shoshana gets there – fifteen minutes after first pitch (only fifteen stupid minutes – what was the big deal?) we go in the Marina Gate and say hi top Kenny Mac and then head up to 152 to find that the fifteen minutes missed included four runs for the Guardians. Not, honestly, a bad fifteen minutes to miss. Harrison is new, had a spectacular start but rocky terrain since then, and will give up one more run in the second inning, but the Giants will hold the line and gradually work their way back with a run in the seventh, three more in the eighth, and a walkoff sacrifice fly in the tenth seals the deal. Exciting in its way, but we are getting to the point where the Giants basically have to sin every game but have demonstrated clearly that they can’t do that; every victory is a mixed blessing, for a fan, in that you want to see them win but have to be aware that every tick in the win column will probably be just one more unit of frustration when they fall short. Today’s lesson, though, is about savoring every moment for what it is instead of grimacing about what it’s not.
Shoshana brings things to savor. She’s one of those people that brings little fruits and sausages and nuts and fancy mustard instead of string cheese and goldfish crackers; she perches like a sparrow on the seat, turns to face me instead of watching home plate. We used to live in the same apartment complex, and about the second time we crossed paths in the hall, I asked her if she wanted to go to a ballgame; she said yes, and then there was a pandemic, a lot of which she spent in Mexico. We didn’t see each other again till shortly before I moved out, and she did go to a game with me last year, but it has been a while since I have seen her. She reminds me a little of my sister’s mother-in-law – bright, smart, tiny, curious (I suspect they share some qualities in terms of what kind of food they would bring to sporting events as well). She’s been building a vacation house in Mexico, but the builder has made some modifications to the plan that aren’t going to work out, so the building is on hold, a thing that might drag some people down, but not Shoshana.
We are also celebrating Orlando Cepeda’s birthday – it’s not till the 17th, but the Giants are observing it today, so we can all be here to share it. We don’t get cake – I don’t know if Orlando gets cake either, although I would think he would – but we do get a picture of Orlando Cepeda, 11-time All-Star, Rookie of the Year, MVP, World Series champion, and MLB Hall-of-Fame star, pointing at the scoreboard to say “Hey, look! You’re up on the big screen!”
What Did You Think of the Evening, Shoshana?
I forgot to ask Shoshana what she thought of the evening, but she did text, a little later, “Thank you for a perfectly lovely fun afternoon,” so I am going to assume it was as enjoyable for her as it was for me.
81 Dates 