I gotta stop going to ball games. Cocteau Twins playing on iTunes, to help me chill.
I wasn’t in the best frame of mind to start. Nothing wrong, really, just the usual everday stresses. Same as you. But we had the whole Chan Ho Park thing going for us, so that was good. I won’t say it kept me going because, seriously, it’s just baseball. But Park’s performance had been a pleasant surprise, and a part of it stayed with me on Wednesday. You know, in a “Sure, I might be struggling with this code, but at least Park pitched a good game last night” kind of way.
There was nothing extraordinary about Wednesday. I followed the usual routine. Leave work at 5, get home at 5:30, feed the dogs and let ‘em run around the yard for a few minutes. Leave a little before 6, shoot down the hill through Mission Valley. Usually bail at University and cruise down Sixth Avenue. The speed limit is 30 there. It’s hard to go that slow because the road is wide and straight. But there’s a church at the bottom of the hill, and cops like to set up camp in the parking lot and get a ticket assembly line going.
Or so I’ve heard. From a cop. Who handed me a ticket.
(It’s okay; this was several years ago and had nothing to do with my frame of mind tonight.)
I pick up my wife at the office. Downtown parking is a sweet perq. We chat with the security guard, who has been there for years. He’s always asking us about the Padres and wishing them well. Genuinely nice guy.
We walk down to Horton Plaza, to one of a local French chain. They make killer chicken and mushroom crepes. We’ll each have one.
“I’m sorry,” says the waiter. “We’re out of those. Can I get you something else?”
There is no backup plan. Perhaps he can whip up a Waldorf salad. But then, he may be out of Waldorfs.
My wife gets a spinach crepe. The waiter repeats her order and says “crepe” in a way that makes it sound slightly less appetizing. I panic and go for the roast beef panini. Not a dynamic choice, but I have to order something. We are, after all, at a restaurant.
I’ll have a beer with dinner. India Pale Ale. “Sorry,” he says. “We’re out of that.”
Okay, make it the Hefeweizen. No, lemon will not be necessary. If the beer is good, it will do fine on its own.
If you’re keeping track, we’re both on our second string entree and I’m on my second string drink. It is the Tom Lampkin of meals.
But as I order the beer, something magical happens.
“May I see your ID?”
I shoot the waiter a look. I’m sure he is joking. He is not, or if he is, he’s hiding it well. I laugh and show my drivers license. I check to see if he’s laughing. He is not. I scan the room for old college friends to see if someone has put him up to this; I see none (not that I can remember what most of them look like anymore). No joke. Dude thinks I might be under age. He thanks me and goes off to get the Hefeweizen.
It could be stale bread and warm water, he’d still get a good tip.
We’ll be late to the game. It’s a calculated risk. We’ve decided we won’t even try to go to our seats. We’ll just hang out at the Park at the Park for a while, then maybe wander around the concourse.
We never leave the Park at the Park. Tennis balls are flying everywhere. Some kids have pretty good control of their bodies and make strong, accurate throws. Others have the command of Brian Lawrence on a bad night.
Like tonight.
Lawrence is all over the place. He’s visibly frustrated on the mound. It’s difficult to watch, because he’s usually such a cool cat out there. But tonight he’s snapping at the ball when Miguel Olivo throws it back to him after a pitch. The ball is moving, as it always does when Lawrence throws it, it’s just not doing what he wants it to, in the way he wants it. When you work in the low- to mid-80s, that doesn’t get the job done at the big league level and he knows it.
Mets starter Kris Benson is also painful to watch. He makes me long for the quick work of Steve Trachsel. What is the old saying: Molasses is slower than Kris Benson? Not a fair comparison. At least molasses has a good excuse.
The Mets are up 2-0 when we get to Petco. We’re there maybe 20 minutes and suddenly it’s 5-0. Lawrence has been allowed to bat in the third despite the fact that this clearly is not his night. He gets two quick outs to start the fourth before surrendering a double to Carlos Beltran.
“Do you want to walk around a bit?” I ask my wife.
“No, but I’m ready to walk back to the car whenever you are.” She has a feeling about this one, too.
“Let’s give it till the fifth inning,” I say, and she shrugs.
Cliff Floyd steps to the plate. Bruce Bochy orders the intentional walk to bring up David Wright. You may recognize him as the 22-year-old third baseman who is terrorizing the league and who already has two hits tonight.
I shake my head and tell my wife we may not make it to the fifth. “Wright is going yard,” I say. My wife steps away. She’s heard me call enough shots over the years to know that I have no clue. But I suspect she also knows I’ll be pretty upset if it happens.
First pitch from Lawrence misses for ball one. Wright crushes the next pitch to left field. From our vantage point, we can only see what is happening on the giant screen behind the center field batters eye. What is happening is Ryan Klesko is standing very still, turning to watch the ball sail into the stands.
The ball is gone, and so are we. Wright has made the game 8-0. We can’t even bring ourselves to stick around for Xavier Nady‘s token at-bat in a meaningless situation. We have better things to do just now. Play with the dogs. Eat ice cream bars. Listen to the Cocteau Twins. And hope tomorrow is a better day.
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