Pause for Purpose

Mark K September 17th, 2010

In the summer of 1958 my dad took my brother and me to our first Giant’s game. I remember finishing a French twist donut at my grandmother’s apartment on San Bruno Ave. and then catching the 25 Bryant on the corner.

The bus fare was ten cents and you dropped your dime into a big metal hopper next to the driver. As the bus bounced along the driver would occasionally pull a handle on the hopper and you would hear this chugging, jangling sound as the fare box digested and sorted the coins. Sometimes as the bus lurched down Bryant St. the coins would noisily resort themselves without the aid of the driver.

Soon we arrived at Seals Stadium at 16th and Bryant, across from the Hamm’s brewery. There was a giant pilsner glass atop the Hamm’s building with yellow and then white neon lights that lit up steadily from the bottom of the glass to make it appear that the glass was being forever filled and refilled with beer.

To enter the stadium, you had to walk through a dank dungeon-like area under the grandstand and then open some swinging doors that brought you to the bottom of the stands. Instantly, your eyes were greeted by the brilliant green of a carefully manicured field like none that I had ever seen.

My dad showed our tickets to an usher and we climbed to our seats, choosing not to rent an optional seat cushion – thousands of which we would later see being hurled into the air at the end of the game.

The Giants were playing the Cincinnati Reds that day and Johnny Antonelli was pitching for San Francisco. My dad told my brother and me to pay particular attention to the Giant’s center fielder because he was a great player – I was so young that I hadn’t yet become aware of Willie Mays.

As the game went on I became distracted by a couple of black men sitting several rows behind us, with empty seats between them and us. They seemed like they were angry with each other and kept arguing.

My hometown had a population of a thousand, none of whom was black. I had once seen an itinerant black man in my neighborhood. In my small-town little-boy confusion, I was convinced that he was returning from the Civil War.

I couldn’t resist turning my head to watch the two men at the game. They were mad at each other, weren’t they? They sounded like they were ready to fight, but they kept smiling while they were doing it. One minute one of them would be poking the other one in the chest just like my brother Jeff did to me right before he popped me one, and the next minute he was slapping the other guy on the back and they were both laughing.

I turned my head all the way around to get a better look.

“Don’t look at me like that,” one of the men shouted at me. “I’m gonna come down there and choke you!”

I turned my head and aimed my eyes toward centerfield. Willie Mays made a basket catch, his hat flying off and landing on the neon grass. I didn’t look back again and when the game was over, kept my eyes on the steps as we made our way to the exit, trusting luck that I wouldn’t get hit by a flying seat cushion.

I didn’t look up again, except once, to catch one last look at the giant bubbling glass of beer before climbing back onto the 25 Bryant.

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