Tuesday, June 23, 2009

I'm Swearing, Aren't I

She and 3 of her girlfriends entered in the bottom half of the first inning. They sat down like a storm, reached into their bags and pulled out water bottles filled with Orange Juice and Vodka. Placing them in the convenient drink holder, the woman closest to me yelled, “Woo-hoo. Go Giants;” the leader of the group – the pretty one with wraparound black sunglasses – stood up and yelled, “Fuck the A’s!” The latter echoed though section CL203 and announced to everyone that that if the game was boring, they’d provide the entertainment. I both grimaced (because I had my 5-year old son Wolfie with me) and looked forward in anticipation (who doesn’t love 4 swearing drunk women?).

Ironically, 4 guys around the same age sat behind them. It was like an episode of Friends waiting to happen except I got a strong Daly City/South San Francisco vibe from the girls and a potent Walnut Creek scent from the guys. So, it would be more like Valley Girl. Depending on how you looked at it, one of the groups would either being slumming or rounding up. They immediately acknowledged each other’s presence and the drunken mating ritual began.

The woman closest to me - the funny one of the group– said hello and we exchanged pleasantries. Getting caught up in the developing story, I leaned over and said, “You know, they’re 4 of them and 4 of you – this could be like a Cinemax movie?” I changed the scenario from Friends to Cinemax and regretted it immediately. She smiled, laughed – not really getting what I said. Like I said, she was the nice funny one and didn’t want any trouble – at least for now.

The 2 groups barbed, flirted and one-uped each other all night. As the male group drank more beer and the female group finished their water bottle cocktails, the 2 of them got looser and their taunts turned from inane to laced with profanity and sexually suggested.

Acknowledging their swearing, the big girl leaned over and whispered, “I’m swearing, aren’t I?” Her face was squinty and her shoulders were up, as if to say, “Watcha gonna do?” in a very, very nice way.

I leaned back and responded, “Yes, you are. You’re having fun, don’t worry about it.”I was playing the cool guy and pandering to them, even though I should’ve been more adult since I was with my 5-year old. My intellect rationalized their actions: “They’re young, having fun, not hurting anybody and I did much worse at baseball games at their age.” The father in me and getting-old-cranky side thought: “Fuckin’ Daly City trash. Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up.” The latter is usually deeply suppressed and rarely comes out.

She whispered again, “You should hear me when I let loose. It’s a lot worse.” Even though this could be taken as a threat, it wasn’t meant as such. She was just letting me know that she was doing her best to act civil.

By now, I was unintentionally mimicking her squinty whispers. I whispered back, “I can only imagine. We’re gonna go to the bathroom and get some food next inning so feel free to get it out of your system while we’re gone.” drawing out every word. I was kinda bummed that I was gonna miss her verbal assault.

“Ok, thank you. I will do that.” She whispered back.

When Wolfie and I returned, we sat one seat away from them. They were loud, distracting and, because the woman next to me was rather large, it was hard to see the batters when she twisted her body to talk to her friends and the guys behind, which she was always doing. I placed my bag in the seat the between us, just in case she decided to move over and chat.

I hoping she wouldn’t acknowledge the insult. I was wrong. She immediately turned her head, looked at me, then the seat and gave me a look as if to say, “Hmphhh!” I leaned over, hoping to ignite our previous whispering session and said, “I don’t mean to be rude, it was just that, um, you were rather loud and it was hard to see and....” It was like I had conjured George Costanza.

In a gracious move, she said, “It’s ok, sweetie.” She topped off the kindness with, “I’m drunk.”

With 2 outs in the 9th inning, we stood and clapped. Lincecum, the Giants’ wunderkind pitcher recorded the 27th out and the near sellout crowd went crazy. We clapped and high-fived our neighbors. Unbeknownst to me, my neighbor – the big girl turned drunk girl – had gone into my bag and pulled out Wolfie’s foam #1 Giants hand.

Dancing in the aisle with the foam hand piercing the San Francisco night, she looked over and playfully jabbed me in the stomach. Slightly touching the foam finger on top of Wolfie’s head, my shy boy recoiled, grabbing my thigh. I laughed and loved that she went into my bag.

As the crowd moved toward the exit, Wolfie and I watched the players shake hands and the media hover for interviews. The 2 groups next to us awkwardly broached the idea of hanging out. I listened intently as they devised a plan to meet up at a bar near the stadium.

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