So there is this place I eat when I am tired of the better places I usually dine for lunch. Sometimes variety actually trumps quality.

I have noticed on several occasions the almost hidden existence of an elderly man near the back of this cafeteria of unexceptional options. As I wait in line for the sugar and oil disguised as Chinese food I often give over to an internal debate on this guy. Who is he? Why is he? Did he fight in the BIG ONE? Would he like company? If so, does that include my company?

Some days he’s there. Some days he’s not. I like it best when he’s there because this means the place isn’t completely occupied by college kids and the rare staffer. More importantly, on days he is there I am not the oldest person in the building.

A few months ago I did get a good look at him. He looked like the classic old man: white hair, declining posture, sparkling eyes, relaxed…and…and…. he was wearing a San Francisco Giants hat. Being a fan myself, it was clear that the marvelous brown hat was an open invitation to start a conversation. You just don’t see that many and it may be a while before you see one again.  Surely, anyone wearing a Giants hat in Tennessee must be interesting and consequently interested in talking about the Giants.

But, I was in a hurry. And didn’t. And felt guilty. Because. Because I wasn’t really in that big of a hurry. And yeah, maybe he didn’t want somebody barging in during his lunch.

Next time. Sure, next time.

After a few days, ‘next time’ arrived. To my surprise, I actually did keep my prior promise to my conscience. I lumbered over and opened with: A Giants fan?

Old Man: Yes. My son lives in California and we go watch games.

More small talk, none of it giving me enough rope to climb up to the higher parts of a conversation. So I left, feeling for no real reason, dejected. Every single person I have seen wearing a Giants hat almost leaps forward towards enthusiastic chatter like Larry David spotting a Prius driver. I got the feeling the hat was more about his son than my favorite baseball team.

The next few visits yielded no sightings of old man. And believe me, he’s easy to spot. He’s the one not wearing yoga pants. I started wondering what everyone wonders when the elderly are no longer at their usual hangouts.

So today I schlepped myself to the low expectation lunch and there he was, with a cap, facing away from me. I thought I’d give it another go. As I walked in front of him I immediately noticed the stark lack of Giants propaganda on his aging coconut. Instead he had a new hat, which I suspect he wore for me, if not for all of us.

Written upon the front of it in bold letters: Do Not Disturb

I grabbed my well intentioned platter of food failure, sat down facing away from everyone, and read unimportant e-mail off of a pathetic little phone, never looking up.

This was my favorite game of the year as a kid.

As an adult, my least favorite. I try to actively hide it from my brain.

I am trying to figure out why and am open for suggestions.