One of the things I have let go in my recovery, well, for the most part, is the adrenaline rush. Gosh, I miss it sometimes. I have been remembering the 1989 World Series, because of the phenoms our SF Giants are this year. I was sitting up in the nose bleed seats at Candlestick Park, over right field, when they won the pennant that October. And my brother was in that same seat when the earthquake sent parts of the overhang raining down on him at the first game of the Series. It took 4 hours to get through the pitch black city, a trip that usually takes 30 minutes. We were all shaken up, literally and figuratively. And what I hated most was those newpeople who descended on us in a feeding frenzy of adrenaline, sitting in front of collapsed houses in the Marina, or in front of the Cypress structure that pancaked and killed 50 some odd souls. I just wanted them to be GONE, go home, let us repair and heal. No one commented on the miracle that just a few souls met their maker that day. A temblor that large in India or South America would have killed millions. We do a really good job with our infrastructure here in Earthquake Country. Funny how these things come to mind again. I learned later to just check in on the disaster once in a while, and do what I have in front of me in between. I haven't even watched any of these last few games all the way through. I did catch the 8th inning last night, and will admit, I got to savor some of that old juice again. Felt kind of good, actually. Like revenge for that 1989 Series, when the As swept the Giants in four games. Oh, and here is a messy little pastel I diddled up while watching my soap opera today. Now, there's a bunch of folks who feast on adrenaline.
No comments:
Post a Comment