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.
Even kids wore SF Giants earrings and band-aids under each eye in honor of Venezuelan Marco Scutaro.
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.