MUTHA-FUCKIN GAME 5.

Let’s get something out of the way here, I’m a jock. A jock, not a woman who fucks jocks, but a real fucking jock. I learned how to hoot, holler and cheer for the home team when I was ten years old and 17 years later, still haven’t stopped. I grew up in the tractor laden Central San Joaquin Valley of California, where the sun beats down fierce in the summer and the almond blossoms coat the orchard floors in showy, snowy delicate white petals every February.

Country.

My geographical situation and paternal sentiments naturally led me to love baseball and not just baseball but Bay Area baseball. I mean, was I really going to root for the Dodgers or Angels or worse yet, the Padres!? Not a chance in hell. My hometown of Modesto was also hometown to the minor league division team, the Modesto A’s (now the Modesto Nuts, but that’s another goddamn story all together) and many a summer was spent at John Thurman field on the green and yellow painted bleachers cheering on major league hopefuls some that eventually made it to the big time. The only celebrity crush I ever had was on lefty-righty Modesto A’s player, Ben Grieve when he came to visit our middle school class on career day. True story.

As my allegiance lay with the green and gold, the black and orange began to entreat me heavily. My dad took me to my first ever professional ball game at the ‘Stick after the 89 Battle of the Bay but before entering high school when I stopped caring about anything that didn’t fawn upon me or involve breaking rules and generally promote teenage assholery.

I was enchanted. The lights, the fog, the sheer massiveness of Candlestick Park and the reverberation of the announcer’s voice from the nosebleed level seats we occupied–all fucking magical. And I cheered and screamed and tried to whistle like a freight train as my dad showed me just how to place my forefinger and thumb in the corners of my mouth while turning my tongue a certain way and controlling the shape of my lips while blowing and sucking air through at various speeds…. (yeah, it’s a skill I still haven’t mastered); I had my trusty baseball mitt at the ready, Giants ballcap shoved down low over my ears as sticks of brown tomboy haircut stuck hastily out at everywhich angle and wearing more layers than had ever before. FUCKING MAGICAL.

Let’s! Go! Gi-ants! KNBR, was my new favorite radio station from then on.

But hold the megaphone. Could I be a Giants AND an A’s fan when I didn’t even live in the Bay Area?! Hell fucking yes I could. I was too young for the 89’ World Series, too young to even know what was happening as the ground rose and fell and library windows bowed in and out, miraculously not breaking. Hell yes I was.

So now as a twenty-seven year old woman, living in the Bay Area, on Game 5 day, with the possibility of a Battle of the Bay yet again, I find my ten year old self suddenly shooting up and out, filling my adult body with pure, unadulterated anticipation and excitement. And sure I haven’t been following the games for years, and keep a low level of knowledge about the players but fuck if this doesn’t feel so goddamn amazing.

Two years ago I stood atop a financial district building outdoor deck at the 17th floor to watch the ticker tape parade for the Giants in 2010, I felt something I haven’t for so long, a love, a distraction, a desire to return to the state of my youth and fit my hand into the leathers, wrap my fingers around the stitches and cheer my voice hoarse. Today is no different. And I am unable to focus on anything with inexplicable electricity coursing through my body. I won’t be at the game tonight in Oakland or Detroit (obvs) but I’m sure as shit going to be rooting for an A’s and Giants victory, cause despite it not really mattering in the grand scheme of the world and paling in comparison to real problems worth devoting your energy on, it feels so damn good. I can even smell the grass stains.

Hey batta, batta, batta, SWING!

 

-/sk/

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