The Phoebe, Me, and the Giants

The Phoebe, Me, and the Giants Howard J. De Nike (bio) Unexpectedly, the Muni streetcar made short work of delivering me to AT&T Park. I had an extra forty-five minutes before my rendezvous with the benefactor holding my ticket to Game 3 of the 2010 National League Championship Series between the San Francisco Giants and the Philadelphia Phillies. Strolling to the rear of the stadium I found a bench ideal for watching people make their way to various stadium entrances. The location also marks the edge of a small-boat marina between the park and San Francisco Bay. Brilliant sunlight flooded the noon hour bustle. The back approach to the field drew an odd assortment of fans—the ones who drink their wine without bother of glassware, or inhale medicinal THC. I made myself comfortable. The Giants had split the previous two games on the East Coast, and were looking forward to the first of three games on the home field. Roy Halladay, the Phillies’ best pitcher, had failed to deliver a win at home. The Giants had high hopes they could exploit the advantage of playing the next three in front of their own fans. At such moments it’s inevitable for fans to look for omens, auguries, presentiments of future success. (Often the sign is only recognized in retrospect; for instance, a shirt worn during a win is donned for the next game, unlaundered.) But here I’m talking about a true hieromancy, an opening to an occult source of information, a divine scoop—one that reveals good fortune, authoritatively, beforehand. So my senses were alert. I am a lifelong birdwatcher, a trait nurtured ever since three out of my first four grammar school teachers (in a small Salinas Valley town) were members of the Audubon Society. When I see a feathered creature on the wing, I make a mental note. If it’s something unusual I make two mental notes. While on the walkway behind AT&T that day observing fans clad in orange and black, the team colors, I saw a small dark bird fly from beneath the promenade up into the rigging of one of the unattended sailboats. A moment passed before I was certain: it was a black phoebe (Sayornis nigricans). Sighting this six-inch member of the flycatcher family in the city would be unusual (outside of a few places—as we shall see). But having one [End Page 158] appear at the waterfront came as a complete surprise. As the designation suggests, flying insects are the exclusive fare of the species. Not that the rim of San Francisco Bay is without insects, but phoebes normally reside in open spaces, close to woods or glades. One may appear near water, but not salt water. Since a black phoebe displays one of the Giants’ team colors, perhaps it was AN OMEN. (NLCS GAME THREE: Matt Cain pitches a shutout; Giants beat Phillies 3–0, and take a 2–1 lead.) The next day, Wednesday October 20, was my weekly golf date at Indian Valley Golf Course. The Giants would be playing the next NLCS game that night, again at AT&T Park. I wasn’t thinking particularly about the previous encounter with a black phoebe, until on the green for the fifteenth hole, set on an elevated crest overlooking several other holes, a phoebe abruptly materialized. It appeared first on a rock outcropping, then flitted to a dwarfish tree. Like many types of flycatchers, a black phoebe (always solitary) will position itself advantageously at a spot where it can dart into the air, snatch an insect on the wing, even making an airborne U-turn, and then return to its original perch. That basically describes the maneuvers of this one. He hung around for several minutes, while the foursome busied itself lining up putts. Myself, I made a mental note. (Indian Valley, located in Marin County, is about as bucolic a golf course as one can imagine. But until that Wednesday, I can’t say I recall seeing a black phoebe hanging around a green.) (NLCS GAME FOUR: Giants overcome Phillies by score of 6–5; Juan Uribe hits sensational ninth inning...