After Big Chris announced on Sunday that he wouldn’t lower himself to sit anywhere at PacBell except Club Level, my roommate jumped at the chance to score some seats for Monday nights Giants game.
Club Level, if you’re like me and needed it explained, is the relatively fancy section of the ballpark where you can get food and booze delivered and they have full bars and classier bathrooms. We cabbed it over and settled in just in time for the 7 o’clock game again the Diamondbacks, which I assumed was meant as some derogatory tern for Native Americans.
Apparently, it’s a snake.
Anyway, I soon noticed that Club Level must mean Douchebag Level, because we were seating around the saddest collection of date rapers in all of San Francisco. In front of us were a Belushi-esque twosome, the highlight of their lives clearly the time they fixed the kegerator at homecoming. Both were clad in weathered Giants apparel, high-fiving their nervous neighbors, screaming at the churro chick and double fisting beer.
I shouldn’t judge the double fisting booze thing, actually. I ordered a “double” Savignon Blanc.
Behind us was the co-ed contingent from the Marina, dressed as if they’d come from their very own J. Crew catalog shoot and engrossed in a discussion of their various MySpace pages. I was highly distracted by the cesspool of humanity around me until I noticed HIM.
Or rather, THEM.
Um, the Giants are hot.
Barry Bonds is hideous and disgusting, but otherwise, them’s some fine ballplayers. I was almost proud. I mean, I’m willing to bet, based on Monday’s observations, that San Francisco has the hottest sports teams.
Sure there’s the rogue fox in professional sports, your occasional Tom Brady.
But let’s face it. Jeter breaks mirrors.
And might I remind everyone, San Francisco was home to my cohort in immense sexual tension, Steve Young.
I realize I’m mixing my sports here (you should be grateful I’m even aware) but I’m guessing the Bay Area has a lot of sexually frustrated women in their 40’s running the front offices….