Shifting the Paradigm

All day long, it's been fixin' to rain. Herringbone clouds chopping up what little blue sky peered through the fog. Fog with an icy edge in the middle of the day, followed by humidity and wind. Well, it is California at the end of October. Rain for Halloween is not unheard of. And none of this would matter as other than a weather observation if it wasn't the Second Night of the World Series, featuring our own peculiar cast of characters, recently dubbed "Knuckleheads". And still, peeling off another layer of onion, I would have very little contact with the Orange and Black were it not for the House Gent, a genuine, unabashed Fan of the SF Giants - a season ticket holder.

Last week he had a bout of flu. I knew he was really feeling weak when he gave away playoff tickets. Last night, first night of the 2010 Series, we had a small party with his dog walking pals. And the Giants won! Tonight, night of the lurking rainstorms, he has a ticket and will be in the stadium, in his father's raincoat, until nothing more is happening. Given that there are tsunamis roaming around the Pacific Ocean, I'm sending a little hopeful screed out into the universe, humbly requesting that nobody who braved the elements to attend this game fails to reach high ground, in the event of killer waves invading the SF Bay. Not to mention those folks floating around in their inflatables, picking up hard-hit baseballs from the gelid waters.

So, none of my women friends would characterize themselves as baseball fans. We're not baseball foes, either. If we happen to walk through the room where the TV lives and a baseball game is in progress, most of us will have a small civil interchange with the person lolling about in front of the TV and perhaps even spend a moment or two watching the pitcher go through his OCD tics, watching the catcher splay his fingers in interesting patterns across his crotch, even getting a little het up when the bat makes contact with the ball and the ball soars over everyone's head and out of the stadium. Nobody I know pouts because her loved one is more involved with the TV than with any other aspect of their share existence, during a baseball game.

But I know things that are really none of my business: which one smokes pot, which one wears thong underwear, which one is dyeing his newly-grown beard with shoe polish. And, for the moment, I care about these things. And so, mirabile dictu, do my women friends. Is it really bread and circuses?