Section B

Four or Five years ago, I started going to San Jose Giants baseball games. San Jose is a single 'A' farm team for the San Francisco Giants. It really brought back memories. As a boy, I had gone to Stockton Ports games with my father. They were a farm team for the Baltimore Orioles. And all of the things that I grew up loving about baseball came back to me. Perhaps I should say that all of the things that I dislike about baseball today were absent. Such things as huge crowds, expensive tickets and foods, and terrible parking hassles were gone. Plus I got a chance to see up-and-coming baseball players before they developed an attitude. It was really wonderful. I also discovered something else that has really meant a lot to me. I discovered a group of people who attend nearly every game and are simply a delight to be around. They are season ticket holders and share my great love of baseball. Until this year I have gone to games whenever the fancy struck me. But this year I did a little arithmetic and discovered that a season ticket came down to between 3 and 4 dollars a game and that was for a box seat. So I sprung for the ticket and now I'm hooked. This poem is a collage of experiences that sum up how I feel about baseball and the wonderful friends that I have made there in section B.

Gale L. Wolfenbarger
9 July 1993

Section B

The day was warm and sunny just the kind we love for sports.

Our beloved San Jose Giants were about to play the Ports.

The stadium was filling fast, anticipation was in the air,

But nowhere more than section B where each one owns a chair.

Betty and Les are in their place, a grandchild by their side.

They try to play the youngster down but pride is hard to hide.

Russell sits, with boots propped up, "The book" is in his hand.

One wonders how so many facts can be at his command.

Bruce has yet to make his way from where the beer is free

His seat is safe, it's not yet time as he can plainly see.

And Barb and Jerry have just arrived a bullhorn in their sack,

Still planning their vacation and discussing what to pack.

Keith is sitting with his book quite unaware of goings on.

His radio keeps out the noise made by the raucous throng.

Kevin talks of girls he's coached to anyone who'll hear

And Hilda waits as every game for Chauncy to appear.

And now the crowd is asked to rise as the anthem is sung with pride.

None of us sound very good but at least we all have tried.

And now at last the game begins our boys are on the field

The Ports go down one two three we know their fates are sealed.

Our confidence it knows no bounds in what our boys can do.

We laugh and joke and ring our bells and tell stories not a few.

But then again they're in the field and not a score is shown,

And once again the Ports are up and cream each ball that's thrown.

They hit to left, they hit to right they hit most everywhere.

The pitcher cannot find the plate but we will not despair.

It seems the inning will never end and with every hit a run.

Won't someone take this turkey out, stick a fork in him he's done.

And when at last the carnage ends and the Ports are on the field,

The score reads 5 to nothing, our turn the bat to wield.

Hopes now stand on shaky ground as our boys come up to bat.

Then Hyzdu sends one over left. Now what do you think of that?

Then Mirabelli grounds to first, and Ward is down in three.

And Cookie flies out to center field. that's all there's going to be.

The game drags on through seven more and the crowd is getting sore.

The ump has called a ball a strike and Bob begins to snore.

Then in the ninth a spark is lit as Wimmer reaches first.

Then Ehman pops one over short. We thought our ears would burst.

Then Casper hits and scores a run and Clemens clears the fence,

And even Albrecht coaxed a walk The crowd was getting tense.

We have two outs and only a prayer to see this game be tied,

And Hyzdu steps up to the plate. I think I'll go and hide.

The first two balls are in the dirt as Adam rocks to and fro.

His jaw is set, his eyes are glazed, he's digging in his toe.

He swings and misses a sinking curve and mutters beneath his breath.

Each one of us tries not to say "he is the kiss of death."

But then we hear a mighty crack. The ball sails out of view.

Hyzdu jumps and spins around, and section B does too.

Yes, there are days when section B may falter in our faith,

But tomorrow when the game begins we'll all be in our place.

Baseball's more than watching games and boys grow into men..

It's friends who share their lives with you that matters in the end.

Gale Wolfenbarger
8 May 1993