How we became American baseball’s latest fans!

 

On a recent trip to San Francisco, my nephew offered to take my wife and me to a baseball game, our very first, between the Gaints and the Diamondbacks. We had always wanted to see a game since coming to America and we readily agreed.

 

By the time we reached the SBC stadium, my nephew was on a high and our own spirits were climbing, thanks to his infectious enthusiasm and when we managed to upgrade our lower box tickets to the Field Club seats exactly behind the plate, our thrill knew no bounds. Inside, the aroma of garlic fries was already wafting through the air and by the time we devoured devilishly large portions of it, a nice crowd had built up. The atmosphere was electric and after we had physically touched our seats many times in devout reverence, we decided to explore the stadium.

 

There is magic in every sport and baseball has its own special touch. There is something dramatic, even captivating about a field waiting for play, lush green interspersed with patches of brown and vivid white chalk lines, suspense and thrill hanging in the air like a breath being inhaled and never exhaled, like a finger beginning to press down on a trigger, players interrupting their shadow swings on the sidelines to peer ponderously over the ground wondering about their fate, swordsmen poised in a heartbeat of still movement before the lunge.

 

The SBC is a truly beautiful stadium and the field looks equally awesome from every seat. The view of the bay from its balconies is spectacular and as we looked down, we saw the kayaks of avid Barry Bonds fans in carefully selected vantage positions, ready to race to the ball that he might disdainfully consign to the waters of the Pacific. We saw the caps and colors of supporters of each team, hoarse voices primed for optimum noise, the thudding of hearts beating for their idols. There were stars in the eyes of devotees and stripes on tiny flags fluttering like little hearts in the wind, declaring their undying loyalty to their team and their champions. It was an enchanting sight, and a strangely moving one.

 

I think the only time when a human being truly loves even his enemies is when his team wins a game.

 

We got back just in time to hear the names of the players being called out like a roll call of honor. The noise was deafening but the loudest roar was reserved for Barry Bonds. Soon, it was time for play. My nephew kept up a constant commentary, explaining the nuances of the game, fretful and anxious that we should understand it like he did and feel it pulsing through our veins. And as the game became clearer to us, we were charmed into its passion. Like the crowd, we watched every movement on the field, eyes wide open, our hearts thumping with every “crack” of the bat as it met leather, our collective sighs like a single breath, our bodies rising and falling like waves on a stormy ocean.

 

The bulbs came on and bathed us in light that would put the sun to shame, and it seemed as if in the enveloping darkness, we were in a world of our own, an island held enthralled and suspended on waves of sound and ecstasy.

 

The first three innings saw a little action, as the Giants scored in the ₂nd and the Diamondbacks equalized a little later. A roar went up each time Barry Bonds strode in, and when the great man mightily smote a ball in the ₄th inning, the stadium rose to its feet and thirty eight thousand voices lifted the ball into the blue sky and crashed it over the centerfield wall for a homer. We became devotees of that enormous giant at that moment, pilgrims praying at his feet. From that moment on, our cameras were trained on the Giants dugout, hoping that by some miscalculation or by some pity that the scorers felt for us, our hero would walk in to bat out of turn.

 

The Arizonians scored a double in the ₇th to take the lead. For some time, it seemed as if the Giants would lose and our hearts palpitated furiously. There was on immense flutter once when Bonds dispatched a ball to the left field but a Diamondback scaled a wall to pluck it off the air. But then the giant stadium television took over our lives, asking us to “Make some noise”, then “Some more” and then again “Louder”. And when our hero walked up to bat again, the screen bade us to our feet and we rose in supplication, beseeching the savior to pull our hearts out of the fire. “Barrrrry, Barrrrry, Barrrrrry” went the chant as he prepared to face each pitch, man, woman and child on their toes, screaming till their neck muscles jutted out like ropes, collective tension drowning in collective noise, as if putting their shoulders into each swing of his bat.

 

But it was not to be. The Diamondbacks ‘walked’ him to the cacophony of a thousand chickens squawking their cowardice to the world. “Boooooooooo” went the crowd, “ohhhhhhhhh” went their sighs, as desperately held breaths escaped from exploding lungs.

 

And just when it seemed that we had not brought luck to the Giants, Felix scored a double with the bases loaded in the 8th to grab the lead. We screamed ourselves hoarse, dancing and singing, congratulating and thumping even strangers on the back, as if each of us had personally picked up the bat and express telegraphed the ball to the ocean’s depths.

 

But it was now all over for the visitors bar the shouting. There was no way the Giants would allow themselves to lose this game from that stage. The crowd started leaving, sensing the finish, but we stayed on till the last strike was signaled and nothing was left on the field except the lights and our hearts.

 

American baseball had found some new fans.