From behind home plate in the Giants' stadium today, I saw Barry Bonds pass Babe Ruth by hitting his 715th career homerun. As luck would have it, I was also present for #s 700, 660, and 600 in years past. I don't go to many games. Last year, I took a bunch of my kids and my girlfriend to a game the Giants won. I grew up a Detroit Tigers fan, but converted to the Giants as my kids grew up here in San Francisco. When my oldest daughter was 8, the Tigers went to the World Series, and she carefully drew me a scoresheet to use as I watched them play on TV. I hope I still have that somewhere. It's her 30th birthday in a couple days. This year, is the first time since 1984 that the Tigers may be serious contenders to return to the World Series. I'm not so sure about the Giants' chnaces; nor about Bonds' to catch Hank Aaron's career HR record (755).
Baseball, numbers, family, statistics, history, love. All mixed up. Here in the Mission District, the sounds of Carnival are winding down as night approaches. Everyone is staggering home, drinking and eating. The loudspeakers still echo over the rooftops. The smell of barbecue smoke hangs on the westerly breeze. It's hot today. Traffic is awful in this area.
I feel a strange calm. I can feel that my lovely shooting star is slipping further away from me. Silences. Distance. Changes. Gaps. Secrets. Leaving me behind, never to return. Forgotten, left to fend for myself. So it's baseball, numbers, family, and writing for me now.
The Giants lost that game today. Meanwhile, I'm losing something much bigger than any game -- my hope.
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