A few days later I headed back to the ballpark. Across from Oracle Park, the wind rolled down the Second and Third Street hills, the damp gray fog tumbling after it. The blasts of air picked up newspapers and street trash and forced them into little cyclones outside the ballpark.
“Heavenly Jesus, it is chilly out here. Reminds me of Candlestick,” said Charlee Ann as we walked through the employee entrance toward the time clocks. “You weren’t working with the Giants when they played there, but it would get so cold and windy, we’d have hot dog wrappers flying all over the place.”
“You have fog in your hair,” I said as I examined her short, tight brownish-red curls. Drops of moisture clung to each strand, like a glittering hair net. She patted her hair.
“Girl, you’re a poet.”
I had brought a scarf with black and orange stripes, heavy ski gloves and warm black ski tights to wear under my khakis, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be enough. Contrary to what the rest of the country thought, California, especially Northern California, lacked sunshine and warmth, especially in the summer.
We went our separate ways after checking in; Charlee Ann walked into the crowded breakroom to put her lunch in the refrigerator and I turned into the locker room. I had a killer headache. Probably should have stayed home. I sat down on the wooden bench and put my face in my hands.
“Did you hear that Martinez broke his little toe? Out for six weeks, at least,” said an employee one row of lockers behind me.
“Freak accident, is what they’re saying.”
“The guy’s a hothead. Bet he kicked something after the game,” laughed another woman.
“No, I heard he tripped and slammed his foot into a curb. Bet the manager’s not happy with that,” said the employee.
Charlee Ann walked into the locker room and sat down beside me. I didn’t move. “You okay?” she asked. “Not sick, are you?”
“No, it’s just that—”
“You’re investigating again, aren’t you? I know that gleam in your eye. It’s like you can’t tell the time of day. Lost in your thoughts.”
I tried to smile.
“I thought you gave that up.” She reached over to straighten my collar.
“Something happened to me. Someone put something in my drink. Drugged me. My head still hurts. And sometimes I can’t breathe.”
“Say what? You tellin’ the truth?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“You just find the bad ones, is what I know. What happened to that nice guy you were seeing? Jon, right?”
“We had a falling out.” I bit my lip to keep from crying.
“Bet he never slipped anything in your drink now, did he? I got to get to my station, but you take care. Don’t be drinking anything but what you get for yourself.”
“Yes, mother,” I said, drawing out the word. Chuckling, I shut the locker with a clang and closed the lock. “You don’t have to worry. I’m sticking to water fountains.”
Our pitching ace stood tall on the mound, mowing down the batters. The flags over Triples Alley stretched out like they were dipped in starch. The wind blew hard, straight from the batter's box to the outfield. The fog thickened as it spread across the field and players appeared and disappeared like ghosts. When the ball dropped out of the mist, outfielders often found themselves in the wrong place with no chance of catching it. Other times, pushed by the wind, the ball exploded off the bat, landing in the bleachers for a home run.
“Tonight, this game depends on the elements,” said a fan standing next to me, squinting to see where the ball landed. “It has nothing to do with talent or smarts.”
“You’re right,” I agreed as he walked past me down to his seat, a few rows from the field. The innings passed quickly. Batters up. Batters down. It was already the middle of the seventh and the Giants trailed the visiting team by a run. As the ballpark organist began to play Take Me Out to the Ball Game, every baseball fan stood, singing and swaying from side to side.
An older man wearing a leather Giants jacket with patches from all the team’s world series and pennant wins stood off to the side of my aisle. He leaned over the last row to talk with his friends.
“You know, the Giants inspired this song.”
“When they were in New York?” asked the woman wrapped up in a black Giants sweatshirt and an orange and black blanket.
“Jim, I’ve heard you tell this story a hundred times,” said the man.
“Well, I haven’t,” said the woman.
“The guy who wrote it was a songwriter in 1908. Never been to a ball game in his life. Name was Jack Norwood. So, he’s riding this subway in New York, sees a billboard that says, ‘Baseball Today—Polo Grounds.’ He gets this inspiration for the song about going to a baseball game. And do you know who was playing at the Polo Grounds? The New York Giants.”
By that time, everyone within listening distance was enthralled with the old storyteller and fascinated with the tale of the song.
“Great story,” I marveled.
“All true. Check it out. You’ll see for yourself.”
The bottom of the seventh inning started and the old timer disappeared into the moving crowd behind me. An inning later, the visiting team’s mid-reliever dropped a ball right in the zone and the batter hit it into McCovey Cove. That was it. Two runs scored. The game concluded with a win in the Giants column. Fans streamed up the steps on their way to the ballpark exit giving me high fives as they passed.
It took another twenty minutes to completely empty the ballpark. Only employees remained and we were about to start the sweep. Each of us took a row and walked the curve of the stands, from one end of the ballpark to the other searching for items people had left behind. In the past, I’ve found sunglasses, umbrellas, jackets, even cell phones. They all ended up at Lost and Found.
“Everyone ready?” asked my supervisor standing in the aisle, four rows closer to the field. With that, we moved forward, stepping around leftover garlic fries, peanut shells, and hot dog wrappers, the usual mess found at any ballpark following a game. The ballpark cleaning crew would move in once we were done to power wash the stands. Halfway through, the first set of lights high above the field switched off.
Out of habit, I glanced at my phone and clicked on my email. No emails popped up. Instead, across the screen diagonally, the words ‘unknown user’ popped up.
“Of course, you know the user. It’s me,” I corrected the cell.
“Who are you talking to?” asked a stocky co-worker one row over.
I shook my head and continued walking, scanning the cupholders, the seats and the concrete floor. We stopped at the end of our rows. I volunteered to take what had been found—a Giant’s ballcap, a grocery tote bag in orange and black, and a green thermos—down to the Promenade level to Lost and Found.
“It’s all yours,” said the supervisor. “Thanks, everyone. See you next time.”
After I dropped off the forgotten items, I walked over to the seats and glanced from one end of the cavernous ballpark to the other. The massive scoreboard, now dark, stared down at the empty baseball diamond. Circling the bleachers, diving seagulls bombarded the stands, escaping with tidbits of leftover fries and hotdogs. Below. the grounds crew hosed down the field while security stood in the exits and maintenance workers emptied the endless number of recycling bins. I glanced at my phone. My email said, “Unknown User.” I clicked on Settings and then clicked on “Sign Out.” The page went blank. I remembered Lena once saying that a forced restart would take care of some glitches in a phone’s underpinnings. I pressed and quickly released the volume up button. Then did the same with the volume down button. I held down the side button and my breath at the same time. The phone logo appeared and my phone hitchhiker was gone. What a tech genius.
I headed for the elevator to go down to the locker room. Employees deep in discussion about the game hung around the time clock. I had carpooled into the park with some co-workers and they waited for me.
“Trisha, let’s go.”
“Almost ready. Need to stop at my locker and check out.”
Fifteen minutes later, I sat in the back seat of the car, my hand in my pocket clutching my cell phone. I pulled it out, turned it back on and clicked on my email. My email messages had returned.
“Did you ever have your phone say, “Unknown user” when you checked your email and then your messages were gone?” I asked my three colleagues.
There was a chorus of no’s and a few snide remarks about what a techno birdbrain I was.
“You should change your password,” said one of my co-workers.
“I tried a forced restart and it worked.”
“A forced what?” said the woman sitting next to me.
“Never mind. Things like this happen with technology,” I said smugly.
“Only to you,” giggled the carpool driver.