Searching for Candlestick Park (11 page)

Hank’s face lit up when he opened the door and saw me.

“I can’t take the bike along,” I said. “Will you keep it here for me?”

“You can put it in the shed, out back,” Hank said.

When I didn’t move toward the shed, he added, “The one where I keep the lawn mower.”

“Greyhound buses don’t allow animals, either,” I said. “I’d like you to keep Foxey until I find my dad.” I handed him the box.

Hank carried it inside, put it on the floor, and removed
the lid. Foxey looked around. When he saw where he was, he stepped out, stretched his hind legs, and sauntered toward the kitchen. He never looked back to see if I was coming, too.

I took the boxes of cat food out of my backpack and gave them to Hank.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Hank said. “In fact, I’ll probably spoil him rotten.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to talk about Foxey.

“Call me anytime, and I’ll tell you how he’s doing.”

I nodded again. Then I hurried out the door and walked away. Alone.

I sensed that Hank watched me until I got to the corner, but I didn’t turn to wave.
It’s only temporary
, I told myself.
I’ll be back soon to get Foxey and then I’ll never leave him again. Never
.

The bus was pulling in when I got there. Quickly, I bought my ticket.

“The bus leaves in ten minutes,” the ticket clerk said.

“Could I use your phone?” I asked. “It’s a local call.”

She nodded and set the telephone where I could reach it. I took the piece of paper with Hank’s number on it out of my pocket, and dialed.

I wanted to ask Hank about Foxey. I wanted to know where he was at that very second, and what he was doing.

But when Hank answered, the words stuck in my throat, and I was afraid if I spoke, I would start to cry again.

“Hello?” Hank said. “Hello?”

I replaced the receiver, and climbed aboard the bus.

I found a window seat, but I didn’t look out. I felt utterly alone without Foxey. I kept my backpack on my lap instead of storing it under my seat; I needed something to hold onto.

After awhile, I took out my debt journal and recorded everything Hank had paid for: the longdistance phone call to Mama, food, and the forty dollars. Even though he had told me not to repay him, I wanted to do it. I didn’t want Hank going without in order to help me.

The bus ride to San Francisco took sixteen hours. The bus stopped in several towns and I got off twice to stretch and use the bathroom. Many passengers bought meals at these stops; I ate the sandwiches that Hank had packed for me.

At one stop, a young man boarded the bus and took the seat beside me. As soon as he was seated, he took a package of gum out of his pocket and unwrapped one stick. Then he offered the pack to me.

“Thanks,” I said, as I took a stick of gum.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Candlestick Park.” As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. I had told Hank the truth, but I didn’t want
anyone else to know my destination. What if this man saw my face on a milk carton or a
MISSING
poster? He would tell Mama exactly where to find me.

“It isn’t called Candlestick Park anymore,” he said. “They renamed it. It’s 3COM Park.”

“Why?” I said. “What does that mean?”

“3COM is a big computer company. They paid to have the ballpark named after them.”

“But Candlestick Park is a tradition,” I said. “It’s where Mays and McCovey played. The San Francisco Giants have always played in Candlestick Park.”

“I heard the city got big bucks for changing the name.”

I didn’t want to believe him, but I knew the arena in Seattle, where the Sonics play basketball, was named Key Arena because Key Bank paid a lot of the construction cost.

I closed my eyes and thought about it. Dad’s big dream had been to play baseball in Candlestick Park. And my dream was to live nearby and watch the Giants’ games there, with him. I knew the ballpark was the same, but somehow our dreams seemed a bit tarnished if it wasn’t Candlestick Park anymore. I decided the city of San Francisco could call the ballpark whatever they chose, but
I
would still call it Candlestick Park.

With that decided, I fell asleep. I woke up at every stop, but stayed on the bus and quickly dozed off again
when we started moving. The next time I got off, I was in San Francisco. It was four
A.M.
as I walked into the bus terminal.

Now what? I thought. Several times during the bus ride, I had pictured myself walking into Candlestick Park. Somehow, I had never figured out how I was going to get there from the bus terminal, or what I would do until it was time for the ball game. I wished I had the bike with me.

The other passengers who got off went past the small waiting area, and down an escalator. I followed.

The old building was called the Transbay Transit Terminal; it was built on a hill. After taking a second down escalator, I reached street level. I went outside, to look around.

As I walked away from the building, a trio of young men with shaved heads and nose rings swaggered toward me. They wore studded dog collars around their necks; heavy chains dripped from their waists. I gave them plenty of room on the sidewalk, but they moved over, and blocked my way.

“Hey, kid,” one of them said. “What’s in the backpack?”

I turned and ran back into the bus terminal, hoping the chain gang would not pursue me.

I
rode up the escalators; the three men didn’t follow. I passed the TV monitors that showed Greyhound arrival and departure times, and settled into an uncomfortable black metal chair. I would stay in the terminal until daylight.

I ate my last sandwich and bought a root beer from a vending machine, feeling as lonely as if I were on a deserted island. After I ate, I closed my eyes and thought about my bed at home. Not Aunt May’s couch, my old bed in the house we used to rent.

When I was little, I never wanted to go to bed. I tried every trick I could think of to get Mama to let me stay up longer and then, when she finally insisted, it always felt so good to slip between the sheets and
pull the striped blanket up under my chin, and close my eyes.

Mama used to come in my room, to “tuck me in.” That meant she straightened the blanket, and kissed me goodnight.

After I got to be about ten, she didn’t kiss me goodnight anymore, but she still came in. She stood beside my bed for a moment and then said, “Goodnight. Sleep tight.”

By then I had Foxey, and most nights Foxey would jump up beside me and purr while I rubbed his head.

A lump rose in my throat when I thought about Foxey. When I left Foxey with Hank, I knew I would miss him, but I didn’t know I would miss him so much. I felt as if a part of myself—a hand or a foot—was missing. I wondered what Foxey was doing.

I wondered what Mama was doing, too. I tried to picture her, at Aunt May’s house. Was she asleep in the bottom bunk bed in Cissy’s room? Was she sitting at the kitchen table drinking iced tea and worrying that I was lying dead in a gutter? Did she even care anymore? Maybe by now she was so disgusted at me for running away that she had disowned me, the way she was always threatening to do. Maybe I wasn’t her kid anymore.

I pushed the thought away, and tried to concentrate on good things. I had made it to San Francisco. Foxey was safe, and I had not been chopped to pieces by an ax murderer. I should be happy. I should be ecstatic!
So why did I slump in the chair and feel like crying?

Because I was tired, and alone, and scared, that’s why. I had some humongous problems which I had just thought of, and I spent the next hour worrying about them.

Problem number one: what if the Giants were not playing at home today? What if they were in Chicago or New York or Montreal? Just because they played at Candlestick the day Hank and I watched the game in the appliance store window did not mean they would be playing there today.

It could be a week or more before they had another home game, and where would I stay while I waited? Too late, I realized I should have found out the Giants’ schedule while I was still at Hank’s house. If the team was on the road, I could have stayed with Hank until they came home.

Problem number two, which I did not think of until after I bought the root beer: even if the Giants were scheduled to play at Candlestick today, how was I going to get in? The five dollars I had left might not be enough for a ticket.

The minutes crawled by while I worried. Some time after five o’clock, I finally dozed off in my chair.

I awoke shortly before seven when a family with four children noisily took seats beside me. While the kids squabbled over who would sit by the window after they got on the bus, their parents calmly read
The San Francisco Chronicle
.

When the next bus pulled in, the man laid the newspaper on an empty chair, picked up a suitcase, and helped his wife herd the children through the glass door to where the buses load. I snatched the newspaper, scanned the sports section, and blew out my breath in relief. The Giants were playing at home. Starting time: 1:05.

I needed to be there at least two hours early because Dad always liked to watch batting practice. I would stand at the main gate and wait for him to arrive.

The man at the Greyhound ticket counter told me I could find city bus information on the second floor. A whole wall was covered with maps and bus schedules. It took awhile, but I found what I needed: the 9X bus to the ballpark. The round-trip price for age twelve and under was three dollars. My arms prickled with excitement as I wrote down how to get to that bus stop. The bus ran every fifteen minutes, starting at 9:15.

At 8:30 I left the bus terminal, looking both ways in case more weirdos in chains were lurking nearby. Seeing none, I hurried to the corner of Market and Sutter. I was far from alone as I waited. Tall buildings reached high into the morning fog; cars, buses, and people bustled past.

An orange and white bus pulled up; the sign over the driver’s window said
BALLPARK EXPRESS
. I asked if I could buy a one-way ticket, but the driver said no, so I handed over three dollars.

Half an hour later I saw the ballpark, and the water of San Francisco Bay, from the bus window. A big sign said 3COM Park. Right then, I didn’t care what they called it.

The bus stopped in front of Gate B. I went to the ticket window and asked how much the cheapest seat cost.

“How old are you?” the ticket seller asked.

“Twelve.” I hoped that meant I qualified for a kids’ price.

“Pavilion seats for children are $3.50,” the ticket seller said, “but fans fourteen and under must be accompanied by an adult.”

“Oh.” I stepped away. Even if I had enough money, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to get in by myself.

The ballpark, like the Transit Terminal, was built on the side of a hill. Below me, toward the water, I saw the main parking lot. People who parked there entered through a different gate.

Unsure where to wait for Dad, I walked to the lower level. The open tailgate of one station wagon held a bowl of potato salad, slices of watermelon, and a loaf of sourdough bread. People sat in lawn chairs circling a barbecue; steaks sizzled on the grill.

Excitement crowded the hunger pangs out of my stomach as I passed the tailgate picnic. I was here. I was standing outside Candlestick Park, just as I had dreamed of doing. A feeling of exultation made the back of my scalp prickle. I had made it!

For a few minutes, I watched fans leave their parked cars, and head toward the escalators that carried them into the stadium, but my instincts told me that Dad would come by bus. When he still lived with me and Mama, he always took the bus to work. I walked back up to Gate B, where the buses arrive, and waited.

Buses disgorged people wearing Giants’ caps and shirts. My eyes scanned back and forth. I had to spot Dad before he went in.

A young man stopped about six feet from me and held three tickets in the air. Soon two women asked him, “How much?”

“Ten bucks each,” he said. “They’re thirteen-dollar box seats but my friends couldn’t make it.”

One of the women handed him a twenty-dollar bill. “We’ll take two,” she said.

The young man noticed me watching. “Hey, kid,” he said. “You want to buy a ticket, cheap?”

“I only have two dollars,” I said.

He continued to hold the single ticket out, but nobody else stopped.

As one o’clock neared, the approaching crowd thinned, and so did my optimism. What if I had missed Dad? What if he had gone in a different gate?

When I heard “The Star-Spangled Banner,” I bit my lip to keep the tears back, knowing it was almost game time.

All of my energy had focused on getting to Candlestick
Park, and finding Dad. What if he hadn’t come today? That postcard was three months old. Maybe he no longer . . . No. I refused to think that. If I had missed him going in, I would wait until the game was over and try to find him as he left. And if I didn’t find him today, I’d come back tomorrow and stand outside a different gate.

The young man with the extra ticket said, “Are you okay, kid?”