Baseball '08, Volume VIII: Father's Day Edition

Ball one, the first pitch of the game, and the world collapses in ruin, 42,000 fans raining down hatred and despair on the shoulders of Barry Zito, the $126 million dollar man, who at times has given the impression that he thinks he is being paid per run and walk surrendered.

For the non-baseball fans out there, he isn't.

It has reached the point, fairly or unfairly--okay, mostly unfairly--that Zito's every pitch is scrutinized, every ball considered proof of his failure as a pitcher. Each pitch that isn't a perfect strike draws the ire of the fans wearing the Zito Sucks pins.

When he walks the first two Rangers batters he faced on Sunday afternoon, the crowd lets out a collective groan around us, figuring that there's the ball game right there. It felt like he was pitching too fast, like he wasn't settling down between pitches, but just going right into the next pitch wide of the mark.

It's a beautiful day, other than the pitching. I had walked from the Ferry Building along the Embarcadero to the ballpark, enjoying the fresh air and the views of the bay, on my way to meet Vaughn.

Then all of a sudden, I realize it is through six innings, and Barry Zito has yet to give up a hit, and the Giants lead 2-0 when Aaron Rowand tripled and scored on a wild throw from Elvis Andrus, the Rangers young prodigy of a shortstop, that let both Rowand and Renteria score. "Holy shit," I say to Vaughn. We discuss the protocol, and come to the consensus that the superstition is just that team itself can't mention the no-hit possibility to the pitcher, for fear of jinxing it. Fans can talk about it all they want. At the end of the sixth inning, Zito makes a nice fielding play to preserve his no-hitter, and he walked off the field to the roaring approval of his loyal fans.

Then in the 7th, Andruw Jones hits a two run home run to ruin everything.

But in the bottom of the 7th, Aaron Rowand makes a key baserunning effort, going from first to third on a single by Renteria to shallow right, and eventually scores on Randy Winn's single.

Baseball is often decided by small details. Rowand hustled all the way to third base. Ian Kinsler of the Rangers made a poor baserunning decision and got doubled off first on a flyout. Elvis Andrus couldn't decide where to throw on Randy Winn's bloop hit in the third, resulting in both runners being safe, and both would eventually score.

It's also decided by players like Zito finding a groove, battling through the first two walks, and pitching a great game to secure a 3-2 win. Great way to spend a Father's Day!

More Than Meets The Eye? Barely.

I'm going to assume that with Transformers 2: Even More Robotic Action--not the real title--premiering tomorrow, it is fairly safe to write about Michael Bay's first movie without spoiling too much, but just in case, you have been warned.

Where did the impulse to watch the movie come from? Presumably from my childhood, when I was absolutely fascinated with the Transformers, and to a lesser extent, the cheap knock-offs known as the GoBots. Cars and trains getting into accidents? Uncool. Cars and trains transforming into giant robots with guns and blowing everything up? Cool.

Maybe it was Sutro Tower In San Francisco, which totally looks like it ought to be a Transformer.

Or maybe it was the summer blockbuster fever combined with the San Francisco atmosphere that makes watching movies a good thing to do on foggy, wet Sunday afternoons. Revenge of the Fallen trailers are everywhere, and I think I want to watch it, just because. It's one of those 'just because' movies, like X-Men Origins: Wolverine as opposed to Star Trek. But this is another instance like Harry Potter; if you want to watch or read a sequel, you have to read what came before--it's like the 11th Commandment, or something like that.

So I rented Transformers the other night to take advantage of a special promotion where we have a week of unlimited movie rentals for a relatively small price. For a movie like this, it is the perfect scenario.

It was definitely entertaining enough, with some hints of mythology and lots of special effects. Childhood toys brought to life and fighting each other and blowing things up. Would have been worth seeing in the theater. But there were problems, too, which I think, to the discerning eye, will establish why the movie didn't win an Oscar (as far as I know):

1) Where the hell was Megatron? When I was a kid, it was Optimus Prime versus Megatron. In this movie, Megatron spends the first 75% of the movie as a giant ice cube, only to come out in time for the big showdown, a 'machina ex machina' as it were; the story should have been about the Decepticons versus the Autobots, not a whiny teenager in love with Megan Fox. It's supposed to be fiction, after all;

2) Not enough screen time for Tom Lenk--Andrew from Buffy The Vampire Slayer. He was an analyst brought in by the military to figure out the source of a cyber attack. I was thrilled to see him for a few minutes, and then he disappeared. This was part of a larger problem, where there were simply way too many characters introduced and then left to dry like a towel on a clothesline, with no real depth--Lenk, Josh Duhamel, that one guy, Jon Voight, that girl analyst, Bernie Mac; it just got too distracting trying to keep up with them all.

A part of that might be my problem, because I kept getting distracted and looking away from time to time, so maybe I missed some character development, but I think that my distraction, like a backhanded compliment, would be a backhanded excuse for this character clutter;

which leads us to 3) it was way too hard to tell which Transformer was doing what to whom and when during the battle scenes. Totally lost track of them, and it wasn't until I read the Wikipedia article later that I realized that Starscream got away. Sequel, anyone?

The Transformers never really came to life, not much. Their personalities seemed like cliched action one-liners grafted on to hunks of metal and guns.

Maybe, though, I'm just being bitter because it was live-action, not the cartoon that I remember from when I was five or six. Maybe I should have rented the cartoon movie too.

Maybe I'll rent that one tomorrow, because the Transformers ARE a lot of fun.

Baseball '09, Volume Whatever: Three Days of the Horsehide, Part II

TUESDAY, JUNE 9TH: Giants versus Diamondbacks. KNBR AM Radio.

"Oh no, here we go again," is a phrase I've said too often over the years when following the Giants, partly because I'm a melodramatic pessimist when it comes to sports, but also because the Giants, time and time again, have "oh no, there they've gone again."

In the second inning of the Giants-Diamondbacks game, after Juan Uribe--nephew of 80's Giants stalwart Jose Uribe--knocked a home run--and is there any radio call more exciting than a home run, specifically for your team?--Matt Cain promptly surrendered two runs on a homer and a collection of hits. Matt Cain is more than able as a pitcher, but has suffered for years with no run support; he had been off to a great start this year, finally getting some help, and entering this game, he was 7-1. It would be a little ironic if the wheels finally came off his control when there was offense behind him.

I shut off the radio and went to do laundry.

When I came back, though I turned the radio back on. Not necessarily because I'm getting better about quitting when my team is struggling, but because I'm addicted to this stuff.

The Giants were down 4-2. Cain had surrendered another homer. Bleh.

But then in the 5th, the Giants scored three runs, highlighted by an error on Justin Upton and a home run by Pablo Sandoval. And then, oddly for the Giants, they decided that scoring multiple runs was so much fun that they might as well do it again in the 6th, this time with the aid of a couple of wild pitches from Arizona's pitcher. All of a sudden, it was 8-4 Giants, and my evening suddenly felt a lot more relaxing. Rhythms of baseball on the radio shift when your team is winning big.

At the start of the year, I saw a lot of miscues and mistakes on the part of the Giants; it was refreshing to see those from the beneficiary's standpoint. The Giants added one more insurance run in the ninth, again thanks in part to a defensive lapse, but otherwise, that's how the score stood, a one-sided victory on the radio becoming a soothing bedtime story.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 10TH: Oakland versus Minnesota, Oakland-Alameda Coliseum.

After work, Vaughn and I met at Powell Street BART Station, tocatch a Fremont-bound train to the East Bay. When I went to the Oakland-Boston game in April, the train was stuffed full of commuters and fans, almost painfully so. This time was much more peaceful.

The train is mostly underground, of course, but for the trip to the Coliseum it is above ground for the West Oakland Station and between Lake Merritt and the Coliseum stop, taking in the Fruitvale stop where Oscar Grant was shot and killed by a BART police officer. Fruitvale offers a panorama of a flat section of the city, somewhat decrepit, and worse by reputation, fairly or not. West Oakland offers a view of the shipyards and the freeways, parking lots for semi-trucks, and a distant view of downtown offices. But that is the sort of industrial view I have assembled of Oakland, and that impression lends itself as well to the Coliseum, for better or for worse.

The crowd flowed down from the platform, through the exit gates, and towards the elevated walkway that would carry us over to the stadium itself. A jazz musician in a green coat and sunglasses was playing a lively version of Take Me Out To The Ballgame, and then it modulated into something vaguely different. It took me a moment to place that he was playing Somewhere Over The Rainbow.

Crossing the bridge, which is a giant concrete slab bordered by high chain-link fences that bend in at the top, always makes me think of prison. Some guys are standing in the flood of people, asking "Anyone selling tickets? Tickets? Anyone selling?" Five yards farther on we pass some different guys asking, "Anyone need a ticket?" We think about pointing out that they should talk to that first group of guys.

Sights and sounds from the game, in list format:

1) Never pitch to Joe Mauer. Just don't do it. He's batting over .400, singled in the first after two outs--only to be thrown out at third advancing on Morneau's follow up single, thanks to a great play by Rajai Davis, who is blossoming in the East Bay. So when he came up with a runner on third and first base open, two outs in the top of the fourth, and works the count to three balls and one strike, I think, Don't give him anything to hit. Just walk him. Then again, they don't pay me to make these decisions. Dallas Braden pitched to Joe Mauer, who rapped it smoothly to center field.

2) Double plays are heartbreakers. After giving up two runs in the top of the fourth inning, Oakland rallied with back-to-back singles from Davis and Jack Hannahan, Davis hustling all the way to third. But then Orlando grounded into a double play that wiped out Hannahan. Davis scored, but that double play killed the rally, and that is emotionally deflating.

3) Matt Holliday and Kurt Suzuki whacked back to back doubles, and Rajai Davis added an RBI single, and the A's were back in the game . . .

4) and then the bullpen came in and promptly went to hell, Michael Wuertz giving up a home run to the first batter and then closer Andrew Bailey conceding a triple and two wild pitches among a barrage of Minnesota offense in the ninth that broke Oakland's spirit . . .

5) but at least the hot chocolate was excellent this time, none of that cup of watery tripe I had last time, that felt like half of it must have spilled before I ever bought it.

And of course, the giant pretzel was sensational as always.

Baseball '09, Volume Whatever: Three Days of the Horsehide, Part One

The season continues, another live game racked up in Oakland, TV and radio filling in the gaps in the jigsaw puzzle. The borders have been established; you know how the teams have begun, you know how'll they'll finish--not in the World Series, I can tell you that--and all that remains is to fill in the middle.

Last week was a media historian's delight, as in the span (Denard Span of the Twins"?) of three days and three games, June 8th through the 10th, I retraced the evolution of baseball as spectator sport, in reverse order, with TV on Monday, radio on Tuesday, and a live game on Wednesday.

So I'm going to randomly write about three games in a row, hoping this framework makes it all hang together brilliantly.

JUNE 8TH: Minnesota versus Oakland. Cable TV

Last summer was the first major league game Vaughn and I attended together, a massacre in Oakland. Losing a game is one thing, but your team losing to your best friend's team is just not right, especially when it was 13-3 or something like that, when your team didn't even show up. You can forgive anything except your friend's team winning, which can make for some awkward conversations.

Last Monday night, I decided to try it again.

Vaughn and I met at his apartment to watch the opener of the Oakland--Minnesota series, Vaughn mixing up Sombreros, which I had never heard of before, but which are White Russians without Vodka, which seemed very strange to me in theory, kind of like baseball without bats. Which, to be fair, has been my impression of how the Giants have played far too often over the last couple of years, so that shows what I know.

The Giants are and have always been my number one team. The black and orange of their jerseys and the posters I had as a child seemed vibrant as music. But Oakland, even if I sometimes overlook them, there is something musical about their colors as well. Their green and gold, so distinctive, seem like spring, bright and brilliant. It sometimes reminds me of the land of Oz--more on that later, just remember that I thought of that metaphor on Monday.

More than a week after the telecast, the thing I remember the most was pitcher Josh Outman's gold socks worn high. He pitched well, marred only by a wild fourth inning in which he gave up three runs.

The fate of baseball games so often hinge on the response to a big inning by one team. Minnesota's young pitcher had pitched strong ball for the first three innings, and then his team built him a solid lead. Maybe he was a little rusty after the extended inning, after sitting on the bench for a while, but he got out rhythm, walking Matt Holliday, Jason Giambi, and then hitting Aaron Cunningham in the head with a wild pitch--Cunningham was fine, though would leave the next inning. Jack Hannahan then cleared the bases with a double to center field.

The time to respond then fell to Josh Outman. The top of the fifth was frightening to behold, as the Twins' All-American boy, catcher Joe Mauer, and their All-Canadian boy, Justin Morneau, were batting second and third. Joe Mauer has one of the sweetest swings I have ever seen, and is batting well over .400, looking to pose perhaps a genuine threat to the .400 threshold for the whole season. And Justin Morneau is always dangerous. Outman lived up to his name, though, and put them down in order. Jack Cust homered in the bottom of the fifth, and that was pretty much the ball game.

That's part of the psychological complexity of baseball; the game hinged on how each team responded to its own success. The Twins gave the momentum right back; Oakland held on to it once they had it.

Nuances of momentum, clutch hits, double plays that succeed or fail, these are among the many novelesque qualities of the game.

Coming next, Tuesday, the Giants on the radio!

Baseball '09: Intermission For Reflection

So before the baseball season started, I set in motion a plan to watch one baseball game live, every month of the season, April through September, with October an afterthought, as the regular season barely touches that month and the playoffs seeming a dim possibility, not only in terms of Oakland or San Francisco's chances of qualifying, but also in terms of my chances of affording a playoff ticket.

Three months down, and I'm on track so far. In April I saw Oakland host Boston, in a chilly night that went to extra innings, forcing me to miss the end, which injected a sense of foreboding into this whole project of one game a month, if I couldn't even finish the first game. But then I also went to AT & T Park to see the Giants fall to the Diamondbacks on a beautiful sunny day. In May, I exploited work's free tickets to see the Giants put together a solid, satisfying-in-every-way victory over Atlanta. June I was slightly concerned about, until I bought tickets to a Giants-Rangers game for Sunday the 21st, and then Vaughn generously provided me a ticket to tonight's Oakland-Minnesota game. More on that game in a post tomorrow or Friday, concerning a trilogy of baseball experiences this week.

So, July, August, September. These stand in the way of crafting some sort of narrative by themed experience. You wouldn't think it would be too difficult, but July is looming as problematic, at least in terms of the Giants' schedule. Their first homestand of July coincides with the trip to Hawaii. They play at home again in the final week of the month, but the Friday night game is the night before Marina's birthday, and I wouldn't want to miss whatever celebration was planned. (Italics for the benefit of Marina or any of her friends who might be reading this).

This may require returning again to Oakland in July. I have my reservations about the Coliseum, and the Giants would be my first choice as a general rule, but some sacrifices are necessary for the greater good. I thought briefly about whether or not I should retroactively modify the terms of the project, as having a couple of extra games in hand might take all the pressure off; but no, there will be no backsliding. There's no backsliding in baseball.

Who am I kidding? I love watching the A's play. Baseball is baseball in any stadium. Plus, the beer and pretzels are cheaper over in the East Bay.

Interestingly, from such an apparently-trivial project, I am learning on a fundamental level how much I enjoy writing about sports. Most people can write more profoundly than I can on politics or religion, though I enjoy writing about those as well. Most people can write at least as well I can on relationships and introspection. And whil I wouldn't claim any superiority in my sports writing, I feel a pure satisfaction from writing about sports that I don't always feel about my other writing. Sports excite me, plain and simple, and provide a suitable framework.

One thing I'm considering is whether to create a separate blog, just for sports, just to create something more focused, because isn't that the path to finding a voice?

The Girl In The Fishtank, And Other Awkward Moments: A Concert Review

1931, San Francisco at the end of the Prohibition Era. Agostino Giuntoli looks around, and decides what the city needs is a naked woman on top of a muscular fish. Thus was born Bimbo's 365 Club, complete with white porcelain statue of Dolfina.

It's nestled at the edge of North Beach, near the confluence of Chestnut and Columbus and Jones Streets, among the hills and valleys of the steep section of San Francisco. (Years ago, in Missoula, in a conversation on campus, Vaughn told a girl we knew "San Francisco was built on a hill, you know," to which she replied, in incomprehensible fashion, "YOU were built on a hill." It was bizarre, but really funny).

Bimbo's is classy, red carpeting everywhere and red curtains, 1930's ambience extending to the multiple bars throughout the establishment, solid, ornate bars backed by artwork of naked women and goldfish. Marina bought me a fedora a couple months back, and it fit in perfectly with the bartenders in black-tie formal wear.

This classiness extended all the way to the bathroom, where it became confusing instead. There was a well-liveried black man standing just inside the bathroom door, bringing to mind instantly the opening scene of Mad Men, with Don Draper talking to the waiter at the bar. It was also mildly creepy. He was just standing there, pretending to be invisible except when it was time to point out the stacks of paper towels. Although I think I heard him muttering to himself once or twice. Unless he was wearing a Bluetooth headset, of course.

Was he for real? Was this his job, or was it just a hobby? There was a small basket on the counter with a few neatly propped-up dollar bills displayed to catch the eye.

If you need further proof that a tradition can be based on no good reason whatsoever, this is it. What part of that age brought us to such decadence that we needed a Vanna White for the hand-drying paradigm?

"There are your handtowels, sir."

"Where? You mean that pile right there that I saw when I walked in?"

"Yes sir."

"Gosh, thanks! Here's a dollar for your trouble, my good man."

And then there's that whole underlying premise of servitude, which, well, is truly fucked up. Does anyone want to be reminded of slavery and racism after two beers? I just wanted to go to the bathroom, for god's sake.

He pointed out the paper towels against my will when I accidentally made eye contact. Did that entitle him to a dollar?

Nah. I was still debating this question as I left, but guilt-trips aside, I had another beer and some french fries instead. I mean, sure, if that's his job, fine, but he didn't really provide a service other than to puzzle me, and that I can get for free elsewhere. I'll declare right here and now, on behalf of frugal bathroom-goers everywhere, stepping out of the context of the club paradigm, and the upscale bathroom etiquette world, and you might as well be tipping someone for pointing out that the sky is up there.

The evening then transitioned from the stuffy world of bathroom attendants and the sense of luxury and veneer that entails to the very democratic nature of a rock concert. We watched the Brooklyn trio Au Revoir Simone, one of those hipster San Francisco concerts featuring up and coming bands that have reached that stage of having professional CDs and cult followings in big cities.

My first impression was that this was Feist in triplicate. Nothing that followed dispelled that notion, which is not a bad thing. They had that semi-angelic air of innocence, yet there was the subtle sense that these were angels who liked to have a good time over a glass of wine--they were the first band I've seen drink both water and wine on-stage--and perhaps make a cutting remark or two. There was a vaguely nerdy-yet-intellectual air to them that reminded me of most of the girls I was infatuated with in college, those nice girls who could have all been named Sarah or Sara and who wore nice sweaters, wore nice glasses, could dissect James Joyce and the questions of feminism like neurosurgeons, and who had a vaguely intimidating yet totally attractive intellectual power that seemed to be vectoring to some definite future in academia. The sort of girls I could talk to in class, but with whom I had no idea how to bring about a discussion of nude artwork involving statues of fish, for instance.

The music was fun, the band played with the buzzing energy of a hive of bees, and the hipster crowd showed signs of dancing, though I'm told that could be considered unhip. All in all, a magical evening in San Francisco. Bimbo would have been proud.

Oh, The Humanity; or, An Unexpected Link Between South Texas and PETA

Saturday mornings, over lattes and bagels and cinnamon buns and the newspaper, we like to listen to "Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me", the NPR news-quiz show which frequently reports anecdotes that highlight people being entertainingly weird, which is a nicer way of calling them bats**t crazy.

Perhaps I'm not being fair. Bats**t is not crazy, but a natural product of a normal bodily function to expel waste. It is perfectly sane compared to the following two examples I heard today:

1) In Kleburg County, Texas--of course it would be Texas--in 1997, some guy got the county to approve and the voters to pass a resolution encouraging replacing 'hello' with 'heaveno'.

I don't know if further commentary is necessary. When you look at the guy's website, he compares himself with Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Edison.

Perhaps people are just really, really bored in Texas, or maybe they are looking for a random, ridiculous hook for the tourism industry.

This actually seems to be getting a lot of coverage on the message boards. I can't help but wonder if this is some sort of hoax.

There are even people coming forward to dispute the guy's claim of coining the phrase. Apparently, if they saw a car wreck, they would want to join in the fun, just for the attention.

2) Apparently PETA has a problem with Pike's Place Fish Market's tradition of flinging fish. In protesting a demonstration to be given at a veterinarian's convention, PETA says the tradition by which workers at the market move fish from the displays to the counter is disrespectful.

PETA is defending the rights of fish . . . that are dead.

Don't get me wrong; 95% of the time I am in accord with PETA's campaigns. I was appalled as anyone by Michael Vick, and I do not want to see him reinstated to the NFL. But sometimes, I think PETA puts blinders on, and they go beyond the pale, making unfortunate claims that damage their credibility.

"Killing animals so you can toss their bodies around for amusement is just twisted," said a senior campaigner for PETA in an article in the LA Times. True, but . . . these are fish we're talking about. They were not killed just to be tossed around for amusement. They were killed to be sold at market. They were sold at market to be eaten as food. Grizzly bears do it. Wolves do it.

Is there an element of showmanship to the fish-tossing in the market? Absolutely. It's a cultural thing, too. It's something that excites people. There is an element of entertainment, yes, but PETA, please, don't be ridiculous. Pick and wage your battles a little more rationally.

Okay, so maybe it is closer to 87% of the time that I am supportive of PETA.

Oh, the humanity of it all.

It is kind of funny, though, too.

Up From The Underground: Soccer Spoiler Alerts

Last night the U.S. needed to recover from a disastrous display in Costa Rica on Wednesday, where they were taken apart by a very good home team. Normally, there would be no shame in losing on the road to Costa Rica, which now leads the qualifying group on the road to South Africa next summer, but the US played such lackluster, depressingly-bad defense and such non-threatening offense that it was a big step backwards on the path to earning respect as a soccer nation. Costa Rica dominated us, and I had to admire their play, at least until the closing minutes, when, with victory already secure, on two separate occasions, to my eyes at least, Costa Rican players flailed theatrically in an attempt to draw yellow or red cards against American players, cheap gamesmanship that soured the day. Nevertheless, I saw more fault in the US side than brilliance in Costa Rica.

So it was refreshing to see a solid display last night, where even after giving up another miserable goal early from Clint Dempsey's way-too-cute bit of attempted trickery, the U.S. consistently pressured and won the ball, showed some signs of life in the creative passing game, and made enough runs and opportunities to come away with a victory and three critical points. Benny Feilhaber needs to play more, that's all I'm saying.

But that wasn't the soccer story that hung with me the most last night.

Mexico has been struggling this time around, and just recently sacked their coach in an effort to reinvigorate their campaign for World Cup qualification. They had a vital game last night against El Salvador, their first under the new coach, their first chance to get themselves going.

The Mexico-US rivalry has been heated over the last 8 to 10 years, with, to my possibly biased eye, Mexico displaying a greater penchant for foul play and red cards as the US has closed the gap in quality and results. I would freely admit to a certain amount of schadenfreude were Mexico to fail to qualify; but still, a World Cup without Mexico doesn't seem quite right, and Mexico has been beset with so many problems this year--the H1N1 virus/public relations catastrophe, the war between the military and the drug cartels that the military might just be losing--that I would not wish on any Mexican fan the failure of their team to qualify.

So as I hiked up the tiled steps from the subterranean BART terminal at 24th and Mission last night, I heard the steady, repetitive blaring of car horns, whistles and cheers, and I asked myself, "I wonder who won?"

Reaching street level, the first thing I saw was car after car cruising emphatically along Mission Street, drivers and passengers alike waving blue and white flags out the windows, hollering and shouting and raising a commotion, and securing the future job prospects of any mechanic who replaces worn out car horns.

Before I came to San Francisco to live, and before I spent much time here, I probably would have assumed that the vast majority of residents of the Mission have their roots in Mexico. That may or may not be true, but it appears that El Salvador has established a strong colony here as well. People were dancing on the sidewalks, cheering with the drivers of the cars in call and response fashion.

So I am sympathetic for any devastated fans of the Mexican national team--although Marina had a conversation with a Guatemalan store owner today that indicated that a large number of people in Mexico, while feeling strong allegiance for their local teams, are neither pleased with nor supportive of the national team, a team that has not been developing young players, and which, apparently, has not been playing with good sportsmanship in the eyes of many. I am sympathetic, but the joy, the exuberant joy of that spontaneous parade last night, that was a beautiful thing. That is the bright side of sports.

There is something magical about that sort of passion for soccer. There is a small soccer field, smaller than regulation, but well-maintained, at the south end of Balmy Alley. Today, we stopped there for a while to watch a seven-a-side match between local teams dressed in professional-looking jerseys, complete with a referee. Apparently, every Sunday, local teams gather and play non-stop from ten until five. These players are good, deftly controlling the ball in tight spaces, passing and constantly running, elegance of soccer under a small-field microscope. It is very much a festival, much like the ones that must have been triggered all over El Salvador and all over the Mission last night.

Having the chance to witness this joy is another amazing benefit of living in this city.

Signs of Chaos, Signs of Chance, Signs of Structure

Not that I tend to believe in signs of the apocalypse as more than fodder for the thus-named section of Sports Illustrated--a weekly one-shot example of something outrageous, generally connected to sports--but the last several days have offered up several incidents that are just plain weird, crazy, eerie, however you want to describe them.

1) Thursday night, I'm walking from O'Farrell Street down Powell to take BART out to the Mission to Marina's apartment, when I notice a long line of cable cars in holding pattern, waiting to proceed into the final corridor for the cable car turnaround in the big plaza on Market Street. At first, I figure it has to do with a high demand for available cable cars for tourists fresh from the authentic San Francisco experience of shopping in the Westfield Centre, complete with a fancy European spelling of 'mall', not to mention a Nordstroms.

But no. As I cross Ellis Street and get into the pedestrian plaza which allows no traffic save the cable cars, I see a perimeter of police caution tape surrounding two cable cars, throngs of camera-toting rubberneckers, and, as I reach a certain angle, the taxi cab that somehow managed to turn into this corridor and crash into two stopped cable cars.

I don't care if your passengers were in a hurry to get to the airport, as my friends heard later; if you drive a taxi in this city, you really ought to be aware of where the cable cars are going to be, especially in such a well-known setting. How do you NOT know to not make that turn?

2) Friday afternoon after lunch with Marina, I walk her to her car and then take a leisurely stroll around the block, which takes me up the hill behind the UCSF Laurel Heights campus. At the top, looking east towards downtown and Cathedral Hill, I see an ash-grey plume of smoke towering into the sky, which is rarely a positive thing. As I head back to work, I see the engine from Station 10 tearing away, siren blaring.

I find out later there has been an underground explosion of unknown origin at O'Farrell and Polk, and an exclusion zone of a few blocks in diameter is maintained for much of the afternoon. It's comforting to think that there is a possibility of the city's infrastructure just suddenly exploding under your feet.

3) Saturday afternoon, after we learned to play croquet (for which our anti-colonialist Filipino friend chided us while wearing a Ralph Lauren polo shirt), we drove to Berkeley for lunch on the patio at Jupiter, surrounded by trellises of climbing flowers, Marina's sister and mom and nephew, and Nephew Boden's latest gaggle of charmed female fans. Leaving them to the shopping at Urban Outfitters, I wend my way back to the BART Station, where, while waiting for the train to take me back to the city to watch the U.S.-Honduras World Cup Qualifier, I hear a sudden, sharp bang, followed by a subtle vibration. An earthquake delays everything for ten to fifteen minutes while they monitor for aftershocks.

It is tempting to link the these three events together into a narrative of doom, but really, the latter is just typical geological activity, and the first two just ordinary examples of the failings of human beings and/or our technology.

4) And on the more cheerful side, on our walk back from the Sunday Streets festivities today, we passed a street sign indicating the end of Lucky Street, a rather down-trodden alley, from what we could see. We turned the corner, and I promptly spied a lucky penny. Take that for what it is worth. One cent, in this case, unless you choose to be more metaphysical about it.

Baseball '09, Volume VI: Noah's Ark Edition

They say there are lessons to be learned from the rain.

Well, maybe they don't say that, but it sounds like something that should be said, possibly in some modern novel set in a jazz cafe in the Financial District of San Francisco, full of angst and fog and music.

But in my case, I'm saying it to segue into the doubleheader against the Washington Nationals that the Giants played on Thursday, June 4th, a doubleheader that ensued because the previous day's game was rained out.

There was enough rain in D.C. to wash away something metaphorical, something that would be very difficult to wash away.

The Giants won the first game, which I did not see any of, but I am noting here because Randy Johnson won his 300th game.

The second game, as the base paths continued to get muddy, featured the hardworking Matt Cain. Last year, he was pitied around the baseball world for pitching well and getting minuscule run support. This year, though, he has finally received some offensive help, and going into the evening game, had a record of 6-1.

When I tuned in during the bottom of the 4th inning, the Giants had just tied the game, 1-1, when Cain allowed a leadoff triple. Ugh. I've been used to seeing--too frequently--the Giants do something to gain some momentum, only to give the momentum right back. This is part of the psychological narrative that is a nine-inning baseball game. It is part of what makes baseball such a good model for life, I think.

With a runner on third, all the Nationals needed to take the lead was a deep fly ball to the outfield, and there were no outs yet, so they had at least three chances to get it done.

The first batter, Josh Bard, popped the ball out over second base into center field. Aaron Rowand started sprinting in. Then kept sprinting. Then kept sprinting some more until he suddenly snatched the ball out of the air. One down.

The next batter lifted the ball to left field, where Andres Torres charged in and pegged a quick throw back to the catcher, who immediately zinged the ball back to Renteria, covering third, who nearly doubled off the lead runner, who had barely got back to third base.

And then Cain struck out the last batter of the inning. Just like that, the threat was denied.

In the top of the 5th, Emmanuel Burriss doubled to right field. Matt Cain didn't help his cause, by popping a bunt attempt up in the air for an easy out. But then Rowand stroked a single into the outfield, and Burriss, running hard all the way, scored. Edgar Renteria singled to right, and Rowand advanced gingerly to third, making his way through the swampy basepaths. After Torres struck out, Pablo Sandoval doubled, scoring Rowand, advancing Renteria to third. Rich Aurilia followed up with a hit; Renteria scored, Pablo, that big friendly smile of a first baseman, fell down rounding third with a great big splat.

The inning ended, and the Nationals went quietly in the bottom of the fifth, and then, as with most events in life, the rain came pouring down, the tarps came out, and two hours later, everyone decided to quit and go home.

Baseball really is a good model for life.

Baseball '09, Volume V: Radio Edition, Mark II

Baseball is the stuff of lessons.

For instance, I've learned to never expect much from the Giants on the road. They are having a very literary year, in so far as they are exemplifying a Jekyll and Hyde dichotomy. They have been strong at home, posting an 18-9 record along the waterfront of San Francisco Bay, but equally meek on the road, seven wins to sixteen losses. They swept Atlanta and took two of three from St. Louis at home, and then today gave up a lead late and get buried by the Washington Nationals in the capital.

After tonight, the Giants have racked up 25 wins to match 25 losses. Almost a beautiful, harmonious symmetry to that. Almost.

The Nationals can hit, and hit well, but they are the sort of mild-mannered team that we should beat on the road, if we are to be able to maintain the illusion of being a good team ourselves. When it comes to determining who is a good team and who is not, all other arguments aside, the win-loss record is a loud demonstration of if you play baseball well or not. No moral relativism about that.

No drama to report. Tim Lincecum leaves in the 7th with a one run lead, Jeremy Affeldt gets us out of that inning, and the rest of the bullpen proceeds to be shellacked.

Here are the lessons to be garnered:

1) Of the two big-money free agent relief pitchers signed this off-season, Jeremy Affeldt is solid. Bob Howry, not so much.

2) It doesn't matter, really, if you win every game. You'll win some, you'll lose some, but there is joy to be found in the small details, no matter what. As long as we win more games than the Dodgers. Crud.


So maybe there weren't that many lessons to be garnered. But that's okay. Baseball is baseball, and there will be more in the months ahead.

What I Don't Want, Part II

This video clip from Keith Olbermann should be viewed by all. The point it makes about the rhetoric of Fox News is precisely why I don't want a 'culture war' and why I fear that us versus them paradigm. The hypocrisy of Fox News is staggering.

Are they as guilty as the man who shot Dr. Tiller? Probably not. But their language is not helpful, is not balanced news coverage, can inflame reaction from troubled souls, and does nothing to further civil discourse. It fits the definition of hate-mongering, I would say.

But civil discourse doesn't really sell, does it?

What I Don't Want

A doctor in Kansas who performed late-term abortions was murdered outside his church on Sunday. Doesn't matter which side of the abortion debate you defend; this is as bad as it gets.

No matter your politics, no reasonable person could say there is any justification to this murder.

This country seems placed to be polarized on fundamental issues. When I say fundamental, I mean fundamentally not worth killing over. Gay marriage, abortion. The responses on either side are so visceral, so firmly held. It's one American version of Israel-Palestine.

I don't want to fight in a culture war. "Culture war" seems like an oxymoron. I don't know if it even means anything, except in terms of the us versus them paradigm that is so easy to fall into in the aftermath of the State Supreme Court ruling in favor of Prop. 8.

If culture war does mean something, I don't know if there is one going on. But the vitriol is there, and the media sells it. It gets the attention, stirs the blood. I don't like myself sometimes when my blood is stirred in this regard.

Don't get me wrong. I feel that I know what is right. But I don't want to demonize the other side. Even that term, the other side, is really rather nebulous, and at the same time, very simplistic. I don't want to adopt those thought patterns, because that is what breeds actions like the tragedy in Kansas. Think of the killer: if he has a family, if he has parents, they must feel like their life is over. Is that sort of pain worth inflicting for anything?

I deleted a blog entry the other day about the Supreme Court ruling because I realized that it was not helpful, that it was the exact sort of vitriol I have deplored for years from fringe groups. I don't want to be fringe, at least not in a reactionary sort of way. I want to be mainstream, to be thoughtful, to be empathetic. That's the way to progress as a culture, and more importantly, it will be the way to be happier with my own life. A culture war is way too big for one person to fight. The notion makes no sense.

What is it about the narrative of living that makes it so easy for us to write everything in terms of conflict and us versus them? Why do we say that a good story has to have conflict? It may be true, but why? Or is the problem that people don't have a good understanding anymore that conflict doesn't have to be violent to be interesting?

Random Bits Of Weirdness

I.

The mail today bore a brown envelope postmarked from Houston that looked uncannily like junk mail. For some reason, I opened it, even when I've grown weary of opening envelopes from Amnesty, Human Rights Council, Oxfam, and all the other worthy causes that I've seen fit to support in the past, and whose letters I now spurn like a scornful, bored ex-lover.

It contained a letter from an American National Insurance Company and a check for $19.47. Apparently, because I paid off a car loan back in September of 2007, a couple of years early, I was entitled to a reimbursement for a partial premium on credit life and/or disability insurance.

This was surprising to me, because, first of all, I didn't know I ever even HAD such insurance on the loan. When I bought the car from Flanagan's Mazda, they never managed to get me a user's guide to the car; how did they manage to get me an extra insurance plan? Second of all, how did I get such a random amount reimbursed, especially almost two years later?

It does have a kind of neat cosmic harmonious timing, in that it keeps with my new habits of picking up change I see on the street and actually depositing small chunks of it into a more useful if more abstract form, i.e., adding it to my checking account balance.

II.

And then you get Dick Cheney, apparently trying to emerge from the rabbit hole and turn it inside out.

First, he comes out in support of gay marriage, though he says it should be a decision left to the states, rather than the federal government. Then he says that there was no 9/11 link between Iraq and Al-Qaeda.

This feels like a trick.

Oh, that's right. He's working on a book.

III.

It's been a bad year for me when it comes to English soccer. My favorite team, Newcastle United, plummets out of the Premiership, and Manchester United, carrying the banner for English football, loses the Champions' League to Barcelona, which allows Marina the opportunity for much clever-but-stinging Spanish-centric smack talk!

The worst part is that I can't argue with either result, which were truly deserved.

Oddly, I have had solace of late in the improved play of the San Francisco Giants. How weird is it that the empire that is Manchester United should let me down, but I should find amelioration in the .500 winning percentage of the Giants?

Juggling People

What is it about unexpected decisions that can make them so subtle that you can't even really see where they are leading you, but you know they are leading you somewhere?

For some reason, I decided it would be a good idea to take more ownership at work, with some rough idea of planting the seeds for a career. A career, of all things? It doesn't feel right to be thinking of such things; I'm barely 29, still a child really. I should be tossing all these random adventures and notions up and down and around the contours of my imagination, right?

Weird.

Anyway, I ended up volunteering to be placed on various teams at work, with the notion of networking and being involved in something creative, or at least developmental. This is how I ended up today balancing in my hands the lives of my co-workers, at least to a degree, albeit a minor degree, kind of like a degree in party planning from Arizona State.

We are preparing the first training class to be developed by our team, and my manager asked me to come up with a schedule for getting all my call center colleagues through the class. It might not sound complicated at first, but when you look at the varying shifts, when some people leave early, some people only work on certain days, and when you consider how many people need to be on the phones on certain days and at certain times, it starts to look like a jigsaw puzzle. You think you've figured it out, and then you see a problem that means switching three or four people all around.

I feel oddly satisfied in getting that done, even if it is such a small thing, really. I don't know what that implies about me. I still don't want to think that my career could be in something like a credit union, as much as it would be infinitely preferable to something corporate; I want to think of my future as a destiny, but how many people can really achieve 'destiny', and of those who do, how many could be happy?