Posted 3:32 PM by Floyd

Yesterday I listened to, watched, listened to, and watched a baseball game. I don't think I have seen a complete game since I went to Candlestick to watch a game. So for the amusement of baseball fans, I will blog my impressions.

(First, a painful prologue: I watched the exciting last inning of the Twins-A's Game 5 on Sunday. Had the A's won, they would be playing the Angels in the ALCS. Had the A's taken a lead in the series, I could have taunted Angels fans with "I'm eeeeeating a rally monkey salad." Now that simple pleasure is denied to me. Fucking chokers.)

The last few days have been hot here in Silicon Valley. My friend Eric has just returned from Pittsburg. He and I are both unemployed so I suggested that we head down to Santa Cruz for some boogie-boarding. We spent the afternoon at the beach. Eric had mentioned that he wanted to watch the Giants-Braves game, which started around 5. I proposed that we find a pizza parlor or sports bar with a TV and eat while watching the game. After we returned our wetsuits and boogie boards, we got in the car and turned on the radio to hear the Giants' batters starting the game.

Unfortunately, we could not find a place to eat. Everything that looked good had no TV; we decided to blow off Little Caesar's and Round Table. I finally decided to go to the Village Host, which is very good but is several miles south, in Aptos. I got a little lost and by the time we got there it was the third inning. We heard San Francisco score two runs, a Lofton sacrifice fly and a Barry Bonds home run.

We ordered pizza and drinks and sat at some barstools, which were the only seats available for watching the game. (There was plenty of space but the main TV was turned onto the Bears-Packers Monday Night game.) There wasn't much action. The Braves scored a run to make it 2-1.

Eric wanted to go home and catch the last few innings on TV. So we got back in the car and headed home. Now there was more action. The Giants loaded the bases with no outs, but were quickly retired. Ortiz got into trouble, was pulled, and then the Braves were sent back with nothing to show for their hits.

A tight baseball game on the radio is more exciting in this way: You're on the edge of your seat a little longer waiting to hear what happened. For instance, there are men on base and the batter has a 3-2 count. On TV, you would see the pitcher swing, the batter whiff, and instantly know that there was an out. Listening to radio you hear: "The 3-2 pitch, Jones SWINGS ... and misses! Strikeout, inning over!"

We got back in the 8th inning with the score at 3-1 Giants. Eric's roommate Brian was there, and had the TV on to the game. Another TV/radio difference: Batters seem more passive on TV than on the radio. When I listened to Giants batting, I visualized them sweating and hacking. When I watched them in the top of the 9th, they just stood there. "Swing at something!" I yelled. "You fecking fecks!"

The Giants were retired. Atlanta came up to bat. Eric is a Pirates fan, and mentioned that ten years ago the Pirates were up by two runs in the bottom of the ninth in the playoffs. Then they lost the lead and Barry Bonds couldn't quite throw the winning run out at home. Eric said, "I'm not going to watch the Giants blow this one too." Then he said, "If the second baseman makes an error, I'm going upstairs."

Then the Braves batter hit a grounder to Kent, who threw it too short and the runner was safe. Error on the second baseman! Eric ran up the steps to the loft and put on headphones.

Then it got worse; the runner stole second, and the batter got a base hit. Men on first and third, no outs. Eric said, "Are there any outs yet?" I said "There have been 51 outs in this game." He told me to shut up.

Sheffield came up to bat. This guy wiggles his bat while waiting for the pitch. I don't mean when he does his little pre-throw ritual, I mean while the pitcher is winding up and throwing. How could you hit anything that way? Nen struck him out and we yelled to Eric that there was one out. "And it couldn't happen to a more deserving wiggling weirdo", I said.

Next came Jones. He spat on the ground. "Kill the spitter!" I cried. Then I said, "A lot of baseball players spit, don't they?"

Then Jones hit into a double play. End of game. Happy Floyd, happy Brian, relieved Eric. Unless you live in Boston, curses don't stick.