Since MLB is obviously never going to permit a major league team move to Tennessee, I must travel for my fix.  Actually, it’s the Braves who won’t allow it. But, I digress.

So, yeah, I can’t beat the Braves or MLB, so thank the baseball gods I have a working car with a full tank of gas and a heavy right foot to make it go.

Picking a game or series involves both struggle and joy.  Which series? Which pitchers will you get? Weather? Seats? Solo, wife or friend army? Lodging? Parking? Getting time off? Schedules? Who feeds the dog? Does the dog WANT go? How do you get the dog in?

I assume the joy part of the equation will be the game itself.  It damn well better be after all that planning.

You can control some of the planning elements, but you definitely can’t control the weather unless you want to be a Rays fan. That’s one line I shan’t cross.

Otherwise, you just have to roll the dice.  Mostly, for this trip, things lined up well.  The Giants are coming to ATL, so that’s that. One game solo, one game pals. Cueto vs. Dickey. Oh yes. Posey in the lineup both nights. Seats are easy to score on a Monday. All giant (ahem) check marks.  And, for the most part, decent weather is displayed in the 10-day sucker deception chart on weather.com.

I loaded up the vehicle with the correct shirts, podcasts and snacks. One more obligatory ‘why bother checking the weather you are going anyway’ weather check before getting on the road. Of course the forecast was suddenly foreboding- as if it were waiting for me to get on I-75 before it told me the truth.

But. For some reason. I didn’t care. I was going. That was….enough?

And it was like that the whole day. Google Maps goes down right as I pull of I-75. Eh, I’ll find it.  Bad check-in instructions for the Air BnB. Yeah, well, I’m early and this BnB is nicer than the photos.  No good places to eat around the stadium.  Yeah, well, I’m going to baseball. I can get bad food there.

I marched up to the Suntrust ticket booth and bought my ticket old style from a HUMAN BEING who gave me a PAPER ticket.

Me: Are you sure this is a covered section, rain free?

Him: Yep.

Me: Double sure? I really want a dry seat.

Him: Yep.

He was wrong. It was directly in the rain.  And rain it did.  From 6:43 until 7:50, delaying the game.  It rained with vigor, like it wanted the Giants to have the night off. (They took it off anyway.)

I went to the usher in my section to explain that the ticket guy sold me a bill of goods but not a dry seat. Before I could explain the obviously winning arguments that I had over-rehearsed in my head before approaching him- he shut me down.

Michael The Usher: No problem, sit in the Giant’s family section. It’s covered.

Me: Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you, kind usher.

The only moment in the day where I sensed my zen was slipping was just seconds before the moment he hit me on the head with unsuspected generosity.  He saw me tensing up and would have none of it.  This is baseball, son, enjoy your neurotic self.  I bow to to Michael the usher.

When the national anthem kicked in I realized it was one of those rare days when the ‘I will be satisfied once- and only once  X, Y, and Z occur’ switch was not engaged.

And I sat there in dryness, talking it up with the colorful array of gabbing Giants fans, including one senior soul who’s kids drove him from Arkansas just for the game. We watched the beautiful rain come down, studied the amazing ground crew battle and defeat the elements, observed people meandering about like it mattered not where they ended up. Nobody seemed bummed out, even the ones who bought those questionable and nasty A-shaped pretzels.  Even when the Giants had the living daylights beat out of them, we all delighted in the joy of each other’s co-misery.

How can that be? I don’t know, maybe you can’t delay the joy when it’s already here.