³That¹s a hit for the Democra-ats!²
I looked up. On the right field wall above the corner of
³triples alley² a gentleman was gesturing at the Texas Ranger
outfielders, none of whom, of course, were looking at him. Beyond
the outfielders, the Giants¹ Randy Winn stood with one foot firmly
planted on second base after lashing a lead-off double.
From our vantage point in the centerfield bleachers we had a
beautiful view of the field and outstanding access to food
(Ghiradelli chocolate sundaes and Stormin¹ Norman¹s fried dough,
along with the usual hot dogs and garlic fries) and bathrooms
tucked in a giant alcove beneath us. Pin-carpeted SF cap on my
head, baseball glove on my friend¹s hand, we were ready for
whatever the night brought.
Our section companions were a rotating cast of Shakespearean
characters, beginning with the batting practice ball fishermen.
Armed mostly with duct-tape-wrapped cups on the ends of spools of
yellow string they cast their lines in a tangled battle each time a
batting practice hit flew to our corner of the outfield.
The end of BP brought a change in cast as the men gathered their
bulging black bags of balls and exited stage left. In their place
came families, mothers underdressed for this night game in light
summer pants and little denim jackets, fathers herding obedient,
souvenir-clutching youngsters. I glanced at my companion. ³They¹ll
be gone by the sixth,² I said, but they didn¹t even last that long.
The pre-game wind drove them to some more sheltered corner of the
ballpark and clutches of teens filed in, giggling, to sneak a seat
in a section not assigned as their own.
Meanwhile, San Francisco pitcher Noah Lowry ‹ whom the Rangers
had tried to sign out of junior college, only to be rejected was
sending the feared Texas hitters back to the dugout in rapid
succession.
The Giants weren¹t faring much better until the third inning,
when Winn smashed another hit for the Democrats then scored on
singles by Omar Vizquel and Pedro Feliz. Texas manager Buck
Showalter ordered his pitcher to walk Barry Bonds to load the
bases, which brought up Ray Durham, who¹d spent most of the season
to that point watching others get on base, being singularly
unsuccessful at it himself.
Durham settled into the batter¹s box. My companion leaned
towards me. ³What¹s your prediction?² he asked. ³I¹m in the mood
for a grand slam,² I replied. Four pitches later we, the black-clad
biker throng who¹d replaced the teens on the bench below us, and
the white guy nerds next to them were high-fiving each other in
delirious exultation. Grand slam I ordered, and grand slam I
got.
That was the beginning and end of the Giants¹ scoring, but it
was all they ‹ and we ‹ needed, as by the end of the night Texas
had lost, 5-1.
Back in Healdsburg a couple of hours later I pulled up in front
of my friend¹s house. He got out of the car and started to walk
away, before striding back and pulling open the passenger door. He
leaned in, grinning.
³I still can¹t believe you called that grand slam!²
