Dodgers-Giants Game
By: Dave Ives
Tags: Candlestick Park, San Francisco, Dodgers, Baseball, Giants

Jane and Gail dropped by our dorm room. Leandro and I, sitting on our beds talking, looked up to watch the excited ladies make a grand entrance. Jane announced, “I got tickets to the Dodgers-Giants game, you want to go?”

All of the sudden my hearing got a lot better. My ears changed shape, going from round on top to pointed, like Dr. Spock on Star Trek; they lifted high into the air, same as a dog’s when his master calls out, ‘chow time.’ Dodgers-Giants tickets — I’m in!

Leandro didn’t change his expression. Instead he presented the first question, “Sounds good, what’s a Dodgers-Giants game anyway?”

Blonde haired Jane from Los Angeles didn’t need any further prompting and launched into the history of Dodgers baseball and the rivalry with the Giants. “It’s just the best ticket in town. Best rivalry in baseball, Dodgers Giants, can’t beat it. I grew up in LA and we love the Dodgers-Giants game. As a kid it was so hard to get tickets, so this is great. Only thing is, I’ll be watching at Candlestick instead of Dodger Stadium.”

Jane spoke with a hard articulate west coast accent. She enunciated her words with six o’clock newscaster precision. Her friendly nature made her a fun person to be around. She had that sunny southern California ‘love of life’ flair.

Gail stood next to Jane and got a few words in, “We got two extra tickets; we thought of you guys first. Jane’s driving her car, game’s this Saturday, glad you guys are coming along, can’t wait!”

I jumped up off the bed and exclaimed, “I’m in! Got the day off, I’d love to see a game at Candlestick.”

Leandro got caught up in the excitement, “Yeah, I’ll go, never been to a baseball game before.”

Saturday morning Leandro and I climbed into the back seat of Jane’s car. Jane drove, Gail rode shotgun. Jane’s car wasn’t fancy but it was a lot better than my car. My car didn’t exist. I didn’t have one. I didn’t understand why Jane had a car because I knew how much money she made every month, same as me. It’s all spelled out on the public military pay scales, no secrets. I couldn’t understand why anyone living in the dormitory would buy a car on such a low wage, but lots of folks did. I enjoyed riding in the back seat of Jane’s car heading from our home on Mather Air Force Base to Candlestick Park in San Francisco. What a thrill for me to get off base and attend such a ‘big-league’ event.

Before leaving the dormitory, Jane gave a warning, “It’s cold in San Francisco, better bring a jacket or sweater, otherwise you’ll freeze.”

I laughed it off, “C’mon, it’s a hundred and four here in Sacramento, even if it’s twenty degrees cooler in San Fran, that’s still eighty degrees, big deal.

Jane persisted, “You better bring a coat anyway, just in case.”

I blew it off. Leandro, went into his closet and brought out a coat. I thought, ‘He’s humoring her. Why bring a coat, just another thing to carry and leave behind when you don’t use it. I ain’t bringing no coat. I don’t want to keep track of it and I’ll never wear it. This heat is unbearable, it’ll be great if it’s cold in SF, that way I can get a break from this Sacramento searing dry heat.’

Jane wouldn’t let it go, “Sean, I’m telling you, you should bring a coat.”

I gave her my best Clint Eastwood tough guy answer, “Naw, I’ll be fine.”

The four of us walked into the stadium; it reminded me of the first time I walked into Fenway Park for a Red Sox game as a kid. I felt an intense thrill as we transitioned from the dark passageway up into the stadium. My eyes grabbed at the scene, drinking it down in large gulps. I mentally devoured the beautiful landscape before me, the deep green grass; the immaculately groomed base paths; the sacred major league pitchers mound; the outfield fence and the rising rows of seats disappearing in the shadow below the upper deck. I drifted off into a momentary dream picturing myself swinging the bat and connecting with a major league fastball and sending it deep into left field towards its final resting place in the upper deck. The crowd cheered as I ran the bases. I tipped my hat, I waived, blew kisses to the adoring fans. When I arrived at home plate I rounded the bases again, I didn’t want the feeling to end.

“Over here. Right beside first base,” called out Jane as she woke me from my short lived dream. We had great seats. Close enough to the field to feel connected but far enough to see the overall picture. But, I soon discovered our seats offered a serious downside, a downside that would take my attention away from the game.

It didn’t take me long to discover the problem. The upper deck shadow line ran just in front of our seats. I observed the bright shining sun delivering warmth to everyone who had access to it. We didn’t. We had access to shade. In Sacramento, shade is good; in San Francisco, at Candlestick Park, on that day, not so good. I hadn’t been in my seat for five minutes when I witnessed something depressing — Leandro, Jane, and Gail, put on their warm jackets.

Jane let me have it, indirectly, “Wow, it’s colder here than I figured. I knew it would be chilly but this is ridiculous. Summertime in San Francisco, crazy.”

I didn’t want to hear it. I had no warm jacket. I made the fateful decision back in Sacramento not to bring one. Now I’d pay for it. I’d pay for it in frozen goosebumps.

I had too much invested to complain about the cold. If I complained I risked losing face. I suffered with a smile. I rubbed my hands up and down my opposite arms in a bid to generate friction heat. I fidgeted in my chair as a way to get the molecules moving; the blood flowing. I thought, ‘It’s summertime in San Francisco and I’m freezing, how does that work?’

Gail killed me with her compliments, “Wow Sean, you are one tough guy. I’m freezing and I got a coat on. Look at you, no coat, just a tee-shirt and you’re fine. I don’t know how you do it?”

Neither did I.

I don’t remember anything else about the baseball game. The only thing I remember is freezing. The memory is chiseled into my brain. I learned my lesson. To this day, I won’t go to San Francisco unless I’m packing … packing heat … in the form of warm clothes.