The Light Fantastic

There are certain times, possibly related to planetary alignments and maybe about as frequent, when circumstances conspire to deliver simultaneously a shiny, splendid San Francisco day and a win at AT&T park. Last Saturday, when the Giants faced the Texas Rangers for the second of three games, was a case in point.

The weather man saw the first prerequisite coming, in a prediction of about seventy degrees for midday, shortly before we departed for the Burlingame CalTrain station, in a bid to find the sweet spot between driving, crowding, and train fatigue. Burlingame had already surpassed that temperature projection, and the handful of fans sharing the platform with us were already enjoying the day. When the train arrived ten minutes late, there was no reason to grumble, save no place to sit once we boarded - ok, fine, two out of three on that sweet spot.

A half hour of standing wasn't really all that onerous as it turned out - and then we were there, on King Street, the park in sight - but no, not yet. We were intent on avoiding the hordes seeking sustenance within the park confines, and Barb had found a promising cafe that Yelpers liked a couple of blocks away, so we headed up Fourth, and after some dithering, found ourselves in a small, quiet eatery across from a narrow green belt called South Park. After we ordered and sat down, we pushed our window open, and luxuriated in the breeze and dappled sunshine, along with a SF brew. The lights of the park were visible in the distance, two blocks perhaps, but we seemed not to be in a city. Crowds in orange could be seen a half block away streaming toward the Mecca of the moment, and having consumed our caprese, we were ready to join them.

The nagging wind of our earlier visit had become a zephyr, and the moving overcast was replaced by brilliant sunshine, sunshine which glinted off the shiny superhero capes which were the day's giveaway for those young enough, who apparently didn't mind many adults donning them for the wine party along McCovey cove. And once we completed our circuit of the park, it took a fraction of the time to ascend to any place we cared to - well, any not specifically off limits. Maybe a lot of no-shows because there was no Melky - as in nearly the best hitter right now in baseball, Melky Cabrera - or maybe because yesterday was a shutout? Who cares, let's get some kettle corn and see what's going on...


We talked with a multiteam couple, he in a Pirates cap, she in Rangers gear. We asked them about the parks they'd visited, most of the West Coast ones, Three Rivers, Arlington, Arizona, and he said, "Before I came here, I would have said Three Rivers was the prettiest." She said while Arlington was scarcely a tourist draw per se, the stadium was a nice venue.

Later as we watched near Levi's Landing, a ferry approached stuffed with orange, "Let's Go GI-ants", CLAP, CLAP, clap-clap-clap. A battleship sulked in the distance, the Bay Bridge glinted. Soon, an array of white-clad, white-faced singers, the Voca People rendered the National Anthem, in the sort of arrangement less predictable than barbershop competitors, but of the complexity of SoVoSo.


And then, first pitch! On the second, the very hot Ian Kinsler hit one deep, not deep enough - and things went agreeably, and scorelessly, along until the bottom of the third. Pitcher Ryan Vogelsong, or v-song to some, managed to get aboard, and when the errors dust had settled, actually came home as well, aided ironically by a balk by pitcher Scott Feldman. Something about the first base umpire's gesture toward second on that balk call got the crowd going in a way that endured.

I started to really appreciate my seat, in the topmost section directly behind home plate. I was worried that it would seem distant, but it mostly just provided a sense of panorama. And the annoyance with the vendors that was a theme last time was much diminished.


By the time the score was 5-0 in the seventh, we were all lulled into complacency, so the Mitch Moreland solo splashdown in the eighth gave us a proper sense of perspective. Vogelsong was relieved after Moreland's shot, but it was more about pitch count than performance at 5-1, and the crowd appeared to swell in appreciation as he left the field. 


Or did it? Yes, we actually did.

J. Lopez, then the steady Sergio Romo, held down the mound. Another solo shot, Mike Napoli this time, hmm.


After Napoli's homer, a somewhat bedraggled gray-hair above us, wearing a sport shirt with Giants logos on a green theme, yelled, "That doesn't matter, let's go!"


And so, at last: three hours exactly, five-to-two. Somehow, the stuff of legend, even with no stats to show. 


P.S., Stuff of Legend dept.: The Giants were shut out the next day; but three days later Cain and Posey conspired to pull off a perfect game .