There was a magical feeling in the air at Oracle Park on Wednesday night. That sort of foggy je ne sais quoi that baseball romantically slaps you with from time to time.
This is all conjecture on my part, by the way. I wasn’t actually at 24 Willie Mays Plaza. I was sitting at home, where the tickets are free, the beer is $18 cheaper, and my tailbone is not on the losing end of a one-sided fight with a plastic seat.
But if I can easily imagine a mystical and enchanting feeling through my dusty computer monitor, then I’m left to believe that something special wafted through the scent of raw garlic and fried potatoes at the ballpark on Wednesday night.