Last night we cooked a leisurely dinner after La Malita Monkeypants fell asleep, drank wine, and watched season two of The Wire on DVD. No radio, no TV, no Internet, and after The Greek double-crossed the Colombians and Frank Sobotka figured out the cops were on to him and Stringer Bell went farther behind Avon's back to cut a deal with Proposition Joe, we shut off all electronic devices, brushed our teeth and went to bed. I didn't sneak back to check final scores, my usual habit, and went to bed blissfully ignorant.
I woke at 5 am as thunderclaps overhead shook our windows. I wondered if the noise would frighten Miss Monkeypants, and I imagined going to her room, holding her close and explaining how nature sometimes pushes hot and cold air next to each other, drastic differences that make for dramatic noise and light and, depending where you're at, ominous conditions. She would have no idea what I was talking about, but I imagined the words themselves, whispered low in a dark room, would soothe.
It didn't matter, as she didn't wake up -- the kid is a champion sleeper, I tell you -- but my wife did, and we lay in bed, wondering aloud at the oddity of a San Francisco thunderstorm in early September, and growing odder as fat drops of rain began to fall on the pavement outside and against our window. But odd or not, rain at night is peaceful, and as the eastern sky turned from black to dark blue to milky gray and a thick low fog clung to the sides of Mt. Parnassus, we drifted back to sleep.
I didn't learn until this morning that the Giants had come a huge step closer to the end of their improbable season, losing 10-3 last night while the unbelievable Rockies came back with four in the ninth against San Diego's ironclad closer Heath Bell. I could have taken the early morning thunder and lightning as a sign from the baseball gods, but that's not where my mind was at 5 am.
I could have cursed Bruce Bochy for the scores of tactical mistakes he has made this year (which, one could argue, are inevitable in the thousands of decisions a field manager makes every year), for trusting, hoping, wishing that Merkin Valdez and Bob Howry could hold the line last night against L.A. after the Dodgers knocked out Matt Cain; I could have fumed over the horrific offense Brian Sabean has put together that, once again, spent the night hacking away and making a middling pitcher look untouchable. All in good time. Note to self: Schedule quality fuming time in the near future.
Perhaps in previous years I would feel guilty, that somehow my refusal to participate last night, even through the airwaves, in what was arguably the most important game of the year was somehow related to the loss. I used to be a fairly superstitious sort, and I still cross my fingers before a crucial at-bat or pitch. But now, to think the lack of my psychic energy cost the Giants is the height of narcissism. Perhaps it's the rain this morning, but I prefer right now to think of this season as a river that, sooner or later -- probably sooner -- flows into the sea. And I'm just standing on the bank, watching.
