Every time I talk to family in San Francisco, I get variations on this theme.
“It’s beautiful here. Is it raining up there as usual?”
I’m a little defensive so I tell them that it doesn’t rain up here as much as people think. Then, of course, they ask me if it’s raining right now and that’s when I start mumbling something about liquid sunshine.
This time there was a new twist, which felt like it was accompanied by an even sharper knife.
It’s still baseball season in San Francisco.
For those of us in the Northwest, baseball season officially ended about the time Junior took his fateful nap. But down in the Bay Area the San Francisco Giants are on a tear. This was evident on the plane that flew me to my hometown last week. As sun pierced the windows, I was surrounded by a sea of orange and black jerseys (including Lincecum, a UW player, but nobody here cares). This theme continued when I met with my large Irish family over the weekend, who seem to take 80 degree days and Giants winning streaks in stride. I shivered for this team as a kid at fogged-in Candlestick Park, and traded away priceless cards just to have my collection of Giants baseball cards.
Still, as my weekend came to a close, I was glad of the warm weather and for the playoff fever that rubbed off. When my plane eventually descended through the rainclouds in Seattle, passing over the oppressively vacant Safeco Field, I realized I was home. And I was bummed out.
I suppose I could consider the fact that fortunes in baseball turn on a season (i.e. the Mariners), or that San Francisco will inevitably sink into global warming-generated waves.
In the meantime, I’ve got a little sun on my skin and a healthy dose of playoff fever.