It all started when I Enticed the Lone Sailor to join me for an A’s game against the Orioles. It was a tough sell, he was more of a movie buff, one of those snobs who goes on about the last Noble Indy film he saw. But I had Instilled Regard in him for the old ballyard, notwithstanding the stench of Firenze Fire from the clubhouse tunnel. That plus some deep swigs of Vino Rosso and we were heading in.
For an effete film fan he quickly took to the role of abrasive hometown Combatant. “You suck, Solomini! Go back to Hofburg, Mendelssohn!” His heckles clearly Audible through the empty yard to each Baltimore batter. “Flameaway,” I egged him on, fueling his vitriol with a 24 ounce Magnum Moon and talk of the glory days of My Boy Jack Cust. “Shocking moonshots from out of nowhere, like a Bolt d’Oro. A classic A’s pickup off the scrap heap by Free Drop Billy Beane.”
As drunk ranting fans will we had totally lost track of the game, until the cheers of literally dozens erupted around us. “Bravazo” screamed the erudite fans as news of Jesus Luzardo’s latest gem scrolled on the scoreboard. As if we had to Justify fleecing the Nats.
My Promises Fulfilled, I left him to wander alone, drinking deeply of the Good Magic in the Oakland night air."Kraut will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no kraut."