Tonight I went to see the Giants play the Dodgers. There is usually something positive to take away from a baseball game, especially at AT&T park: getting out of the house, being among other fans, hanging out with the friends you go with, seeing a nice sunset, the water, the field, the sounds and smells of the game. I'm sure I'm exaggerating because of the sting of the loss, and realization the Giants probably aren't going to the playoffs, but none of those positive things were there tonight. It was all obscured by (the loss, of course. but also) the bleachers.
The Bleachers: 1. have no back to their seats. 2. are where Dodger fans love to sit. 3. are where the drunkest fans like to sit. 4. are extremely cold (even with 5 layers and a blanket) 5. are where you can't see the jumbotron--because you're sitting right underneath it. 6. are where people like to stand and yell next to you; either their friends names ("aaaamannndaaa"), "beat LA," "go LA," "fuuuuck yooou," or just "faggot" (other friend: "hey, we're in the city." first guy: "I know that's why I'm yelling, 'faggot!' as loud as I can). 7. are where people jump in front of where you're sitting, almost hitting you, to give their friend a weggie, a big one, where they pick him up and rip his underwear, only to leave him laying at your feat (no backs to the seats), laughing.
I'm not mentioning the actual game (again--the flame) and I'm sure all of this would have been fine, even fun maybe, if the Giants had a chance during any part of it. Approaching the stadium, I felt excited for the rivalry, the importance of the game, people teasing each other on BART, the thunderstorm static in the air. But, by the time it was 4-1, and I knew the Giants couldn't make up that difference (I say that believing I'm a positive person, who thinks it isn't over till it's over), I put my head down in my lap and stopped watching. By the 7th inning or so, when it was 7-1, I was ready to go (and I never leave before it's over). But my companion was even more positive than I am ("they just need 2 grand slams") and we stayed until the end, eventually trying to save the night with some hot chocolate and sneaking into nicer seats. The hot chocolate was good, the walk home was nice.
But I was still bummed by the time I got home. Luckily, my roommate was around (he shared some facts about the game from watching the broadcast, including the fact that the Giants hit something like .150 with runner's in scoring position) and willing to watch a documentary movie about Hank Greenberg.
Hank, who is pictured above, was the first admittedly Jewish baseball star (there might have been others who changed their names/didn't admit to their Jewishness, the movie told us). Besides seeming to be an all around good guy (he was confident but not cocky in the interviews--admitted to luck when it played a part in his doing well, thought of himself as a roll model and tried to act decently, lost 4 years of his career to serving in WWII, encouraged Jackie Robinson when he came into the league), Hank was a great hitter. He hit for power and average. But the thing he cared about most were RBIs. "Just get on base and I'll do the rest," he would tell his team. Hank hit best in clutch situations. He wanted to win. In 1937, he hit 183 RBIs (still an AL record for right handers). There was even a part of the movie where he had an injured wrist and was still able to sacrifice bunt his teammates into scoring position. "The Giants should watch this movie," my roommate said. If only I could get a job as their spiritual leader, I thought (I would show the movie to them, as part of their spiritual journey).
Here is a song about Hank (also known as Hankus Pankus) by Groucho Marx and Bing Crosby, with some bonus "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" in the middle.
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