Sometimes you just have to.  You just have to drive 4 hours and go see a couple of games starring your supremo teamo, in my case the San Francisco Giants. The natural choice is Turner Field as a weekend trip to Atlanta is about $2,000 cheaper than a weekend jaunt the bay.  Turner Field is a great place to see a game.  Lots of room, it’s rarely cold in the early part of the season, and they don’t even sell it out when they are in a pennant race.  As opposed, to say the Giants, who have sold out every home game since three years before the franchise was created.

I shelled out for a good ticket for the first game of two I will be seeing.  Getting a single ticket can get you pretty close pretty late in the day.  But, as it turns out, you have zero input on who sits
next to you.  It’s a lottery and it doesn’t benefit higher education.

I shuffled down to my seat and waited to see who would show up.  Before the game started they brought out about 20 former players from the Negro League for us to honor.  Oh, that’s cool, one might think. All of us Ken Burns Doc watchers know the story and therefore it’s really fascinating to see some of the teams and players of yore.  And then it hits you.  CRAP, that was NOT that long ago the game we all love and treasure was freaking segregated.  These guys are still out there and they don’t look *that* old.

The got a standing ovation from my section, so we were off to a good start.

Once the game began, it started.  The non-stop, somewhat crude heckling of the Giants by the Braves fans. One guy in particular, let’s call him ‘red head sunburned college kid’- led the charge:

“PENCE, YOU SUCK!”

“PAGAN, SIT DOWN.”

“PABLO, THAT’S A DOUBLE A SWING YOU GOT THERE.”

Ok, that last one was funny and perhaps accurate.

It got louder.  The kids down the row from him joined in.  They were all stone drunk by the third inning, except for the kids, whom I suspect may have been at least trying to figure out a way to get there.

Sometimes this type of thing just crushes my zen.  Why can’t they just let the game be about…oh…not themselves for a few minutes? Seconds? Please?

I was waiting for that magic moment when the drunks have too much to even heckle, and the kids get hoarse and bored.  It came about the 7th inning.  A few homers from the Giants also helped settle the mood.  All the while, I was getting along fabulously with my row-mates, who were funny and much more selective hecklers.  They made each pitch count.

It felt like perfection.  The balance had arrived and the Giants had never been behind so I didn’t have that stress in the mix.  Just watch ’em win and high five the other Giants fans (who treat each other like their favorite lost cousins) on the way to the beer stand.

The Braves didn’t rally.  They sure tried.  But LOUD RED HEAD SUNBURNED COLLEGE DUDE behind me did. He rallied in the bottom of the ninth, basically just screaming “ROMO!” like it was Kirk yelling the name of Khan.  Also, more concerning, he turned on his own team, in particular Dan Uggla.

“I BELIEVE IN YOU DAN. I BELIEVE IN YOU!”

Pause.

“Not really.”

I laughed out loud at that one, why hold back?

Anyway, Romo finished off my favorite second team and the place got very quiet and humble.  The drunk kid, to my astonishment- looked directly at me and said in the most dignified and sincere way possible: Congratulations on your team’s win tonight.

He, after all, had both class and manners- all hidden from sight behind the Bud-Lite bravado. But they were there, just waiting for him to inhale for a second. He loved the game every bit as much as the studious guy behind him with the program glued to his face.

We all had a great time. In our own way.

Sometimes it all meshes. Some nights are perfect for baseball.  Most nights.