Driving to yoga this evening, I stopped at a crosswalk.
When a loud girl asked if I was a Giants fan, I anticipated some bullshit. Me: shrug, noncommittal snort. Her: “You can have my tickets for tonight’s game, club level!” She dropped two tickets through the open car window and sauntered away. Each one had a face value of $55.
I don’t much care about baseball. Loud, colorful, free things are OK though. And beer in big cups. I plotted out my evening.
All that intensive planning, and wouldn’t you know it? Yoga sapped my (admittedly lukewarm) enthusiasm for the game. I just wanted a quiet dinner with the girlfriend.
I tried giving my tickets to yoga’s dudeliest student, a thinly bearded Indian guy with a medallion on a chain. The dude said he didn’t like baseball. Then he followed me down five (!) flights of stairs, explaining he had a report to finish but “otherwise would love to go.”
Sure you would, pal.
I went inside Pancho Villa, where I spied a smooth-faced guy and gal in Giants gear. They were mid-burrito.
“Are you Giants fans?” (I asked stupidly.)
“Want two club tickets for tonight’s game?
“Promise me you will not waste them?”
They seemed really sweet, and young. “Catch a fly ball for old man Hirsch, wouldja?”