Baseball

Thirty-eight thousand people dressed in orange and black lined the stadium creating a jack-o-lantern effect. The Bay sparkled as the high afternoon sun reverberated from the small waves. Kayaks, sailboats, and speedboats spotted McCovey's Cove and the steam-horn honked with an almost war-like force. The field maintenance crew watered and lined the infield as the Giants and the opposing Los Angeles Dodgers warmed up on their respective sides. Laughter and yelling roared through the hallways as people herded through with beer and garlic fries. 24-inch LCD monitors tuned into the pre-game announcements as fans rushed to their seats, eager to hear the starting lineup. The air was crisp and chilly, traditional to  San Franciscan weather. In the distance children hit woofle-balls on the mini-field and small figures slid down the large Coca-Cola bottle that served as a slide. As the announcer read through the Dodger's lineup the crowd exploded in a round of boos, getting louder with each called name. Shortly after she raised her voice to a high soprano tone and started the home team lineup, clearly yelling, “And now for your San Franciscooooooooooooo Giants!”

 

“Buy me a beer,” Miranda whined to her boyfriend of two-months, Andrew. She didn't understand his fascination with baseball, and quite frankly she believed it was the lamest sport she'd ever been forced into watching. Most of her boyfriends had been big sports-a-holics, but that came with the territory when you were head cheerleader. She didn't mind football because there was constantly action going on and big muscular guys rolling around together, but these guys hardly had any physical contact. The lineup had just been announced and she was already bored out of her mind.

“You're too young,” he said without looking over at her. This was supposed to be a “guy's day” complete with tailgating in the parking log, ice-chests full of beer, and making asses of themselves after they had a drink too much by yelling at the opposing team and pissing off everyone around them.

“Whatever, c'mon. I'm bored.” Miranda looked at the score and saw the score was on 1 of 9. “Hey babe, what are those numbers on the scoreboard? Nine what?”

“Innings.” He leaned forward in his seat as the first guy stepped up the plate, nearly oblivious to Miranda.

“How long does an inning take?” As she asked three 40-something year olds sat next to her, the large one took the closest seat. He pulled a large flask out of his back-pocket before sitting, and once he did she got a whiff of onion breath and sweat. She rolled her eyes and looked to Andrew who sat completely oblivious to her discomfort.

“Andrew, how long is this going to take? It's cold and looks like it might rain. I had a blow-out yesterday and I'd like to get more than a days worth out of it,” she paused and waited for him to respond, “Hello? Are you even listening to me?”

Andrew listened to Miranda mindlessly as he watched Lincecum throw the first pitch. Thank God he was starting today, they couldn't afford another loss. First two pitches were fastballs on the outside corner and the third was a beautiful change-up that struck the batter so off balance he looked like he was golfing rather than swinging a bat. He let out a hoot and pumped his fist in the air, turning to Miranda for the first time since they'd sat down.

“What?” He asked impatiently. The boys had to bail, something about a kegger in Chico, and though they'd asked him to come he knew he wouldn't get clearance on that with Miranda. They'd only been dating for two months and already she was clinging to him, calling him her “foo-foo”. He had really needed this guy's day, but s**t happened and he didn't want to waste his tickets.

“I asked how long this is going to take?” She furrowed her eyebrows and fluffed her hair.

“Oh, uhhh, I don't know. Probably around two and a half hours.”

“What! You didn't tell me it'd take that long! I have an appointment with the girls for mani-pedis that's been tradition since middle school and I can't just...” Andrew tuned her out and watched as Lincecum tossed the first pitch to the next batter. He swung, connecting with the ball, and sending it soaring to right field. He stood to get a better view and threw his hands up in anger as it went sailing into McCovey Cove. “No!” He yelled, backed by the 38,000 fans that surrounded him.

“I'm going to the bathroom,” Miranda pushed him into his seat and stepped over the family next to him, stepping on the toe of a little boy who held an ice-cream in his hand. He stuck his tongue out at her back and threw his ice cream at her, “Strike three! You're out lady!” He cried and settled back into his seat smiling, eager to continue watching the game. Andrew couldn't help but grin while Miranda stamped her foot and sprinted up the stairs. He leaned forward once again, taking a sip of his beer and saluting the day.