Play Ball

Business over pleasure is understandable, but for me, business over baseball is unacceptable when the San Francisco Giants make the playoffs. A season when the Giants make the playoffs is as rare as hen’s teeth, to quote a saying by my Old Grand-Dad. If you were to recite all the sayings by my Old Grand-Dad it would take a month of Sundays. The list would be as long as your arm and I’m not pulling your leg.

The Giants were as hot as blue blazes and won their division for the first time in 16 years, so I was as happy as a dog with two tails. But like all long-suffering Giants fans, I was also as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.

  

Right now I was as mad as a wet hen as I drove toward the country property to be sold by Jack and Ethel Birdson. I had been as dumb as a box of rocks for booking my appointment the same time as the opening playoff game between the Giants and the Cubs. I could at least, I thought, catch the first couple of innings on the car radio. But alas, as I left the valley behind, the radio reception faded until it was just as clear as mud.

The road was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg as I approached the mountain dale that was the Birdson homestead. It was as pretty as a picture and I would dearly love to list the place. But on my previous visit Jack had been as cool as a cucumber toward me, so I felt my chances were as slim as a broomstick. I wondered: How can I butter him up and make our relationship as warm as toast?

“Jack, you come down here, right now,” Ethel yelled. “Mr. Love is here!” She turned to me. “Jack’s as crazy as a loon about those Giants. He’s up in that big pine tree trying to get radio reception.”

Quick as a flash I was up that pine tree. “What inning?” I asked.

An hour later Ethel brought out a couple more beers for us.

“You guys are like two peas in a pod,” she said.

Yes we were, and we stayed that way as sure as the day is long.

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