Game 62

Once again braving the wilds of public transit, I set off in search of Ichiro’s 200th hit. The sign is stowed away in my bag, I’ve got the gear on, and for that special oomph, it’s Padres jersey night.

And, we’re off. Coming into the beer garden, I spy with my little eye Mark Hogan, my companion for the evening. Holding court as always near the beer lines, within the ear-shattering decibel range of the 80’s greatest hits. Over the loud strains of Duran Duran splinter bands, Mark and I both give our projections for tonight’s game.

I , of course, predict that Moyer will give up his home run early, and we should hurry, or we might miss it.

Mark counters with, “What’s the hurry? It’ll be 3-0 before we even cross the street.”

As we ruminate and enjoy our favorite summer brew, we receive a call from our friend Kristen, who has herself been enjoying poisonous distillates. “They were dirty,” she says. “Dirty!”

Driving by on the viaduct is not nearly a close enough encounter of the Kristen kind. We tell her to exit and park, which she does. After a brief negotiation with the helpful young men outside, we’re all into the ball park, along with 28K of Seattle’s diehard faithful.

As we cross the street, Rick Rizz announces “at the end of 1, the score is Kansas city 4, Mariners nothing.” I feel just awful claiming “victory” with the grand slam Moyer served up, but hey, I’m the one who took a roto bath on the evening, I should get some sort of compensation.

Since we have been drinking, (of course), Mark bets that he can beat us all at the speed pitch machine. I still have my curveball (not the drink), but the shoulder isn’t what it used to be. Still, I record the fastest drunken toss, and the ball breaks three feet left into the concrete.

And it still hurts like hell. Gone, daddy gone, arm is gone, away. But still respectable for a big man with bad joints. For the record, Mark has never won a single baseball game related bet with me since our friendship began in 2002. It just gets better and better when there is beer involved.

From the Safeco beer garden, I can see our new friend Dave across in my seating area. I know it is him, because like Ryan, he is freakishly tall. Also, there is no-one else in the section, which means it can only be someone who has upgraded their tickets. While the rain and train delay us, we do get there in the top of the fourth, after holding the Ichiro sign up proudly at location # 1. No love for the fans.

In a surprise development, Kristen has read Dave’s book, and becomes the conversation locus of the evening. Mark leads us all back to the beer garden after the roof is extended, where we have been promised our pick of seats in the playoff addition whenever we want them.

Right, like we’re going to the beer garden to sit down. Out of nowhere comes overpriced malty goodness, as we secure our spot at the front rail of the section. The little leaguers who had been holding court there wisely decide to find their seats, as the grownups come out to play. We are quickly displayed on the unsponsored video screen, which just as quickly quickly moves away once my San Diego jersey comes into full view.

Beers up Ichiro up, Sign up. Ichiro down, Sign down, Mariners down. I sense a trend. Beers down and out.

It’s a pretty speedy game, but the sign keeps going up, and coming back down. The Royals, proud owners of the AL’s worst record, seem very willing to give it back to the Mariners this weekend, and Seattle isn’t trying that hard to dodge the bill. In the bottom of the eighth, Mark notices that there is an outside chance of Ichiro coming up to bat in the inning. I relate the Ichiro ninth inning woes for the week, but he is undeterred. Since he has to run to catch the Bremerton ferry (which leaves at 10:30 PM), Kristen displays concern over the lateness of the game, but Hogan replies that he can still run a 6 minute mile, so there’s plenty of time.

Sure, and I can still strike people out. But in a bizarre display of competence, Hasegawa does just that, rewarding us all with FREE PEPSI! With 4 miles worth of time to go, the sign comes out, and we are ready.

Mark dives in and grabs the sign. “You’ve been holding this damn thing all night, and nothing’s happened. It’s my sign now, gimme that.”

To which I reply “What, Mark? Do you think he’s going to hit a home run?”

If only my power could be used for good.

I’ve still got the sign. Thanks, kids. We owe you one.

Mariners Lose. Again