It always befuddles me that the fans of the SF Giants wear black to show their support and devotion to their team. Black is a color that we commonly wear to funerals, when we solemnly remember those who have passed, or when we remember somber events in history. For example, I remember in 1989 when I was at UCSD, and the massacre at Tian An Men Square happened, and all the Chinese students wore black, or black arm bands or head bands, to show support for their brethren back home who perished on that day and those still battling against the powers that be that brought on that horrible debacle. So why is it that we go to support a team that should bring us joy that we wear the color of death? Perhaps we wear black because we know what's coming. We know it's a hopeless case. We know we are doomed. As we march up the ramps to find our seats at the stadium, dressed in black (and orange--the colors of Halloween), we are marching on to the gallows with our dying team.
So when this baseball season is over, I truly hope to see a new Giants team reincarnated next spring, with fresh new faces, who can really play ball. Even though we missed a 9th inning rally last night, my dad and I couldn't help but take off at the top of the 8th. It was such a pathetic display of professional baseball, where the only thing the fans get excited about is when Barry steps up to the plate. I don't feel like I can rally for one player, even though he might hit that historic home run. We go to the stadium because baseball is our national pastime, not to watch batter after batter strike out or ground out. And for the price of our tickets, not to mention the price of peanuts and beer, we fans deserve a little more satisfaction than being able to watch Barry have about 3-4 at bats at best, and a team that leads the Majors in double plays.
But every time my dad invites me to a game, I will cancel all plans and don my best black and root for the home team, and usually return home frustrated and saddened, having suffered another loss.
Wearing black to the game is a paradox quite like summer, a season that anywhere else typically conjures images of balmy nights and scant clothing, but where here in San Francisco, we bust out our sweaters and scarves, always prepared for the thick fog to roll in and gusty winds to plow through the streets. And so we must wait until these boys of summer, dejected, leave the field, when the Indian summer begins, and the looming grey dissipates, in order to clearly see the light of the sun through the dense fog, the glimmer of a new hope.