San Francisco

It’s a warm Saturday afternoon at the ballpark, and Emily and I are enjoying a pleasant mid-game lull. Nothing much is happening on the field below—nonfans seem to think that’s a flaw in baseball—so Emily and I have a chance to ponder.

“If you had to marry one of the Giants, who would it be?” I ask her.

“Hmm . . . tough question.” She takes a sip of her lemonade. “Jeff Kent, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s so steady. He just goes out there, plays hard every day, and gets the job done. You can count on him,” she answers. She takes a bite of the prosciutto, provolone, and sun-dried tomato sandwich she brought to the ballpark. “So? Who would you marry?”

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