When I was a kid, I had this rule: “Never leave in the middle of a baseball game.” I may have had my rule, but my dad had the car keys.
So it was in 1969 that we left a perfectly good doubleheader in Anaheim because my dad wanted to get home to see man’s first steps on the moon. As if that would never happen again.
And so it was we attended a Giants doubleheader the following year at Candlestick Park on a bitter, wind-blown day. The first game went 13 innings and four hours. Halfway through the second game we bolted.