The temperature here in North County plummeted to highs in the 60’s this weekend, and my sense of reason and common sense returned. I imagine–probably falsely, but still–that amazing things would be accomplished here if the sun weren’t primed to burn a hole in us and if we didn’t have to endure like hothouse flowers. Any climate that celebrates the spectacularly skinny and skimpy of coverings makes me skeptical, obviously.
So I walk around fat, until weekends like these, where I am the healthy one. Not that my body image has ever determined me; I tend to go with how I feel, not how I look.
Yesterday was a lot of reading after a week glued to the television for the World Series. Today was scribbling. These are sedentary passions, so yesterday I left the house for about forty-five minutes to walk to a park and not a coffee shop (as you remember from previous posts, I’m trying to escape the only decent coffee shop in the tourist trade here in Southern Carlsbad: Starbucks). I was in a turtleneck, that wishful piece of clothing I had hoped to incorporate into my San Francisco trip. Even bundled up the sun tried hard to make me regret it and failed miserably. I’m one of the rare people on the face of the planet who relishes a good shiver.
There’s talk back in my fair City of “dynasty,” which I don’t like. If this World Series thing continues to happen every two years I’m going to have to switch my primary allegiance to the Oakland Athletics; the only thing holding me back from that now is the fact that I, like Crash in “Bull Durham,” think that the designated hitter should be outlawed. Making ANY American League team my primary target of affection violates that repulsion, so…I’m torn. I started out as an American League team fan though, years ago, the first time I saw Kirby Puckett play for the Twins, so it wouldn’t be a stretch. Still, you won’t find a Madison Bumgarner in the American League because THEIR PITCHERS AREN’T ALLOWED TO HIT AND SLING, TOO. MadBum isn’t just a pitching phenom; in National League ballparks he’s been walked more than once because he can hit home runs. For the non-baseball folks out there…as a pitcher, he isn’t supposed to be able to do that.
I get this question a lot, too:
“Why aren’t you a Padres’ fan?”
Rooting for the Padres is like rooting for McDonald’s fries–they may be a personal/local baseball fix, but they aren’t shooting for greatness. The Padres’ organization conveys the feeling that, look, see, we have a franchise, like those disappointment people who have kids or pets because it’s a societal pressure. About the happiest time for a Padres’ fan is at the end of the season when the organization knows they aren’t going to post-season, so they relax and play well. The best Padre performance this year was the last week of September. Oy.
Under the same token, I’m not keen on rooting for the Angels. They, like their National League counterparts in the Dodgers, spend money as a solution. That doesn’t seem to work out well.
I default to San Francisco because I also love the City; during the televised coverage of this year’s parade I drank in more of the images around the Civic Center than I did of my boys. The Moneyball factor would make for a romantic happy story for Oakland, but that approach still gets laughed at for its absolutism…I find myself considering Denver or Phoenix for a little while…and then my inexplicable heart takes over and insists again on the Bay Area. (How long will that last? Let’s see where tech goes…) I’m just sorry to report that my boys aren’t the underdogs they were and that I loved in 2008, after Bonds made my day and made his exit.
Dynasty smacks of…Yankees. Dynasty is too much heat.