Yesterday was Game 1 of the World Series.
Since I live in San Francisco, I couldn’t help but notice.
The city was dressed in orange and black.
The fans donned the team colors, the hats, the beads, and the mitts.
I was at AT&T Park as an observer. That’s all I could afford.
The ticket prices were enough to pay off the nation’s debt.
And I didn’t have enough cash on me to pay the $400 price tag for standing room only.
Baseball fever is an addiction.
As the fans streamed by me, I noticed the classic symptoms. Glassy eyes. Flushed cheeks. Hooting and hollering.
There wasn’t a soul in regular clothes.
Orange was de rigueur. Even police officers wore tokens of it on their uniforms.
Beer was the drink of preference.
Boozy breath was the stand-out body odor.
Oh, and the F-16 fly-by timed with the fireworks at the commencement ceremonies was stunning.
Even if I didn’t go in, I still felt part of history.