I’m not necessarily a hero

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.

  • 6-7: Yoga class.
  • 7-7:30: Drive home.
  • 7:30-8: Bike to AT&T Stadium.
  • 8-?: Brewskies.
  • 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.)
    “Um, yeah?”
    “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?”


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