Giants v. Red Sox
July 28, 2023
Red Sox win 3-2

On the inbound BART between Daly City and Balboa Park, just before it goes underground, I see a vacant lot, beyond it thousands of houses “huddled together like seals on a rock,” as Richard Brautigan wrote (not about San Francisco, oddly enough, but about Portland) on some frank and turgid faultline and, above them all, a dismal slate sky. I’ve just flown the 49 minutes and 424 miles from thousand-degree, sun-blighted Burbank, here to see the Giants play the Red Sox, and this cool, damp, the-fuck-you-looking-at greeting brings a little thrill to my dour New England heart.

My name is Marty Barrett. In the 1980s a man with my name played second base for the Red Sox (though his middle name was Glenn, and I could never pull that off) while I lived in Boston. The famous Marty Barrett holds post-season batting records, is in the Red Sox Hall of Fame, and was a formidable opponent. In the 90s a former girlfriend of mine framed an opposing player’s quote from the Boston Globe: “But the one who gave me the most trouble was Marty Barrett.” During that time, certain Red Sox fans (and I think you know the kinds I mean; some of them were at last night’s game) would learn my name and ask, “Any relation?” And I would eventually say, “Yeah, he’s my brother.”

My great friend, the baseball historian and Frisco bon vivant Justin Berthelsen, greets me by the statue of Juan Marichal, the Dominican Dandy. It is astounding to me how much the area around beautiful Oracle Park evokes Boston’s Fort Point Channel (the neighborhood where Martin Sheen went splat in “The Departed”). The bridge and the waterway, seen from the right angle, make me think that, if I turn around, I’d see the Federal Reserve, South Station, and the Tea Party ship. Instead, there’s just a guy inching toward us trying to sell his SoundCloud album. Justin hustles us away from the hustler; he needs to show me baseball players made out of Legos.

“Base Ball.” That is how James Earl Jones intoned it in “Field of Dreams.” I, who have gone years between attending games and have never seen two games in a row, like I will do this weekend, have nevertheless fathered two children during recent victorious Red Sox postseasons. My father lived his life without seeing the Red Sox win a World Series and my children have not known a world where the Sox haven’t been recent champions.

Tonight’s game, the first of a 3-game series, finds the Giants (Justin tells me they have retained their name since the 19th century and have recently surpassed 11,500 victories) and the Red Sox (their original name was Abigail Adams’s Stern but Loving Countenance) with an almost identical record: both have 47 losses and the Giants have 56 wins compared to the Sox’s 55. I see many families in the excited crowd wearing Red Sox gear, and Justin tells me the other teams that are even better represented on nights like this. I can only remember the Dodgers, and he tells me the rivalry (Justin uses the word “opprobrium” because he’s an Edwardian fop) between Los Doyers and the Giants has existed since the 19th century. Pointing to Oakland, he then tells me the sad story of the A’s, and I am moved to feel sorry for them.

I know none of the players, aside from Giants’ infielder Mike Yasztremski, grandson of Carl. That’s just one of those names a non-fan knows by osmosis, like Hubert Humphrey or Cosmo Kardashian. You know how incels will demand that their object of unrequited affection “name three songs” by the band that is on her t-shirt, tattoo, or visible thong? Because of my lack of knowledge, I would be ashamed to wear Giants or Red Sox regalia for fear of someone asking me for validation about Spud Horque’s famous triple or Domingo Stellartois’s Tommy John surgery, so I save the money for your excellent public transportation (the new Muni stops look like blissful euthanasia centers from “Soylent Green”).

But there is one player whose name I become aware of instantly. Justin Turner, playing Marty Barrett’s hallowed position for the Red Sox. I look up from my brisket plate and ask my friend Justin why all Oracle Park is booing this man.

His benign features twisting for a moment, Justin first tells me that Turner is a former Dodger, then later he tells me that Turner, despite testing positive for COVID, celebrated with the Dodgers during “their fake World Series win” in 2020. My guide’s face returns to normal when visitors ask him for directions, the trauma reincorporated into his sturdy frame.

There are exciting moments but, despite staying in my seat for the entire game (save for the 7th Inning Stretch, where I dutifully stand), I really don’t know what’s happening. Turner gets booed. Marco Luciano’s family, having traveled from the Dominican Republic, is proud of their son. Peighton and Cristian get engaged on the big screen. She says Yes! Perhaps some day she will be Nana Peighton. Giants’ DH Joc Pederson (I think?) gets a home run. The Red Sox win on a windy night, 3-2. The seagulls come to feast on the dead.

I love San Francisco and I love this park. I think the Journey singalongs (“Don’t Stop Believin’” when they’re behind and “Lights” when they’re ahead) are beautiful and appropriate. At Fenway they sing “Sweet Caroline,” written by a guy who’s not even from there about a girl who doesn’t live there. The Red Sox fans are ungracious in victory; I don’t respond when, earlier in the game, one of them shouts, “Who else is heah from Bawstin?” But the red B on the midnight blue background still make me happy when I see them.

It’s a joy to come here, and it stirs memories and affection whose sources are at magma level for me, despite my having no goddamn clue what a shortstop does. “Base ball.” I mean, I’m not going to plow over my coyote, syringe, and desert plant field in Los Angeles to build a baseball diamond, but I will mess up the other Marty Barrett’s Google alerts for a while.