On the slow march down Pressley Street to the Pirate’s PNC Park a strange urban squirrel darted in front of me. It was rough looking, thin, and featured something I had yet to see in a squirrel: a strange orange hue.  The orange squirrel was completing its mission when a large, black, imposing SUV zoomed down on him. And even though the street was the domain of the vehicle, the squirrel knew exactly what to do and crossed safely to the other side of Pressely with nary a nick.  I dubbed the squirrel Madison for every brave orange squirrel needs a regal name.

I cut through an alley where I was verbally accosted by some tail gaiting Pirate fans that noticed the SF on my hat. I jousted back, mildly and cautiously, given I was outnumbered 3-1 and ultimately 30,000 to 8. The jousting, as it often does, ended up in the downing of a warmly offered cold tall boy on a warm, Wednesday autumn day. Why does beer taste better during work hours?  You know why.

I eventually met my West Virginia friends Jim and Jenny outside of PNC where we downed additional tall boys and talked, not trash, but baseball- and lots of it. My Pirate loving pals guided me through the street and into the cathedral gates, through the merch shop, and into actual cathedral.  Yes, the rumors are true, PNC is undeniably impressive. I just stood there and looked it, trying to take it all in, knowing it can’t all be taken in.  The river, the bridge, the sun, the 8 other Giants fans, the Manny’s BBQ, the french fries inside of a sandwich.  Everywhere you look is something awe inspiring.

The post season.  The post season.  The post season.

Click your childhood fantasy three times and there you are, standing in the middle of it, 40 years later.  Here’s some good news: the dream loses nothing over time.

But here in the present, the game is over, you know what happened. However, here is a sample of what happened from my vantage point in the men’s room in the bottom of the third. (Inning, not bottom third of the men’s bathroom.)

Sitting in the middle of a row you have to choose your bathroom breaks carefully. I split at the end of third to hit the bathroom one more time, planning not to leave my seat again until the end of the game.

Every single Pirates fanatic I met was superbly friendly and good-natured in their ribbing if they ribbed at all. Every single one, except the guy by urinal three.

“What the hell is HE doing in here? Get the hell out of our bathroom!!”

And he was serious and more importantly, seriously drunk.

I made a joke about long lines and tall boys, hoping to quell is anger, but I was drowned out by the EMPHATIC CHORUS of full bladdered Pirates fans telling him to SHUTHEHELLUPMAN.  He did, after mumbling something about me admitting I love the Pirates. And of course I do, I love baseball, and they are baseball.

The lines were long- so long that when I got back to my seat the Giants were in the process of loading up the bases. The fans in black were THE ABSOLUTE LOUDEST FANS I have ever heard, screaming to the point that I actually felt like a 1972 Who concert would have been quieter.  I wanted earplugs.  It was incredible.

And then…..the… Grand Slam.  Yes, the Grand Slam I predicted in the previous blog entry.  And then, on a dime, it was, crazy, eerily quiet.  I have never seen such a radical switch in energy.  It felt weird to make a scene when everyone around me was about to cry. I heard a Giants fan screaming from two sections away, and that was about it for audible expression, except for the sound of Crawford high fiving the third base coach on his way home. It pretty much stayed that quiet until I got back to my hotel.

Except for the last pitch of the game- when the sizable number of Pirates fans that had not bailed gave their post-season Pirates, who had just gotten beaten to a pulp, a standing ovation.  I clapped for them, too.  And somewhere, a drunk Giant hater was puking up warm tall boys in a parking lot as his depressed friends waited for him to finish so they could get the hell home. A perfect ending to a to perfect evening.

Surrounded Selfie. Click for the punchline.