Play Ball
Summer has set in with unusual ferocity, as well as a blatant disregard for a calendar that implies that it is still technically spring. With this heat wave has come the crazies.
By crazies, I mean that general sense of lassitude and things going off-kilter. For instance, the other night I was riding the 38-Geary down O'Farrell, and it had to make a detour down a couple of blocks and over along Post Street due to fire engines clogging the street; once I got to the BART station, I heard the metallic announcements from the PA system announcing that debris on the tracks near Daly City was causing long delays in either direction; we were stopped in the tunnel between 16th and 24th Streets for a good five minutes, and I was getting slightly antsy, slightly claustrophobic, couldn't quite tell if we were moving or not, because there was that gentle vibration in the walls of the car.
Late Tuesday night, I had a conversation with a homeless man named Nathaniel, whose name, he pointed out, means "a gift from God." That would have meant more to me if I believed in God, I suppose; he also told me, if I heard right, which I don't think I could have done, that he came here from DC for the free HIV, and he wanted me to have a cup of coffee with him, my treat, at 12:00 on Wednesday morning and to give him my phone number so I could call him with job opportunities down the road. All very weird stuff.
It's feeling a bit like the world is coming undone like a baseball whose covering is coming unstitched.
Which means it is time to write about baseball.
This is the first entry to introduce a chronicle of what I hope are at least 7 entries covering baseball games I attend this year, as my goal is to get to one game, either Oakland or the Giants, in every month of the season, April through September. It will give a nice element of structure to the year, I think, and maybe I'll capture some of the magic--in miniature--of David Halberstam's great book, Summer of '49.
I'm already two games to the good this year, with a game in Oakland last Tuesday and a game in San Francisco last Saturday, and a Giants-Braves Memorial Day game planned. I might even get to an Oakland-Giants match-up in June, which might merit two entries, one for each team's perspective.
Baseball is full of so many narratives and meanings. Just to tout a few of my own: the Giants-Diamondbacks game I went to on Saturday featured the team I grew up with versus the team affiliated with the Missoula Osprey, so I have a connection there, and I think I saw the Diamondbacks catcher play once back home. The Giants-Braves match-up is a repeat of the very first baseball game I ever attended with my dad, 1985, a game when Bob Brenly made three errors but won the game with a home run.
When looking for something to write, might as well write about something you love and something that holds your fascination, something to get you into a groove of writing consistently.
Tomorrow I'll write about learning the heartbreaking truth behind the myth of East Bay warmth, the scandal of the scorecard and the hot chocolate, the dissonance of Red Sox fans outnumbering the good guys, and the other details of the Oakland-Boston game from last Tuesday night. Like the baseball season, writing happens every day.
By crazies, I mean that general sense of lassitude and things going off-kilter. For instance, the other night I was riding the 38-Geary down O'Farrell, and it had to make a detour down a couple of blocks and over along Post Street due to fire engines clogging the street; once I got to the BART station, I heard the metallic announcements from the PA system announcing that debris on the tracks near Daly City was causing long delays in either direction; we were stopped in the tunnel between 16th and 24th Streets for a good five minutes, and I was getting slightly antsy, slightly claustrophobic, couldn't quite tell if we were moving or not, because there was that gentle vibration in the walls of the car.
Late Tuesday night, I had a conversation with a homeless man named Nathaniel, whose name, he pointed out, means "a gift from God." That would have meant more to me if I believed in God, I suppose; he also told me, if I heard right, which I don't think I could have done, that he came here from DC for the free HIV, and he wanted me to have a cup of coffee with him, my treat, at 12:00 on Wednesday morning and to give him my phone number so I could call him with job opportunities down the road. All very weird stuff.
It's feeling a bit like the world is coming undone like a baseball whose covering is coming unstitched.
Which means it is time to write about baseball.
This is the first entry to introduce a chronicle of what I hope are at least 7 entries covering baseball games I attend this year, as my goal is to get to one game, either Oakland or the Giants, in every month of the season, April through September. It will give a nice element of structure to the year, I think, and maybe I'll capture some of the magic--in miniature--of David Halberstam's great book, Summer of '49.
I'm already two games to the good this year, with a game in Oakland last Tuesday and a game in San Francisco last Saturday, and a Giants-Braves Memorial Day game planned. I might even get to an Oakland-Giants match-up in June, which might merit two entries, one for each team's perspective.
Baseball is full of so many narratives and meanings. Just to tout a few of my own: the Giants-Diamondbacks game I went to on Saturday featured the team I grew up with versus the team affiliated with the Missoula Osprey, so I have a connection there, and I think I saw the Diamondbacks catcher play once back home. The Giants-Braves match-up is a repeat of the very first baseball game I ever attended with my dad, 1985, a game when Bob Brenly made three errors but won the game with a home run.
When looking for something to write, might as well write about something you love and something that holds your fascination, something to get you into a groove of writing consistently.
Tomorrow I'll write about learning the heartbreaking truth behind the myth of East Bay warmth, the scandal of the scorecard and the hot chocolate, the dissonance of Red Sox fans outnumbering the good guys, and the other details of the Oakland-Boston game from last Tuesday night. Like the baseball season, writing happens every day.
Labels: baseball, heat waves, narratives, structure
posted by Devin at 11:01 PM
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