Everything was going fine until I saw the idiot in the customized Derek Jeter Giants jersey-shirt. I was about thirty dollars into my beers so, it took me a second, but holy shit, that guy was actually wearing a customized Derek Jeter Giants jersey-shirt. There are only three ways this man could have obtained such a jersey-shirt:

1. He customized and ordered it off the Giants online store.

2. Somebody customized it for him as a joke and now he wears it seriously.

3. He found it at a thrift store and has no idea what the letters and numbers on the front and the back of the jersey-shirt mean.

I really hope possibility number three was the reality, but even in that best worst-case-scenario he is still an idiot wearing a customized Derek Jeter Giants jersey-shirt, and that is unacceptable behavior.

Unfortunately, this was just the second worst “Giants fan” I encountered all evening. The worst Giants fan I encountered was a sad eight year-old boy, decked out in Giants gear from head to toe. His Giants-fan-dad was actually doing an admirable job with his two sons, breaking down why base runners take a lead, or why a fat man is playing third base for the Giants (he’s actually quite agile!). He was so engrossed in his teachings that he failed to see they were backfiring.

In the midst of a Giants “rally” — which at AT&T Park means down by one, nobody on base, apparently — the crowd, being directed by the score board, of course, starting murmuring “Let’s Go Giants” in the way a high school basketball audience might cheer for their team. In the midst of the chaos that was utterly un-chaotic, I heard something that brought a big old smile to my face.

Full discretion: I was sixty dollars into my ice cold Budweisers (that were “Made In America“, in case you wondering). I’m not sure I could tell you one thing that happened in the game, due more to my utter disinterest than my being sixty dollars into Budweisers. I can tell you, however, that the story I’m about to relay is 100% how I remember it happening. I have made up no details, but I also have no witnesses who can confirm that they heard and saw the same things that I did. Regardless, here it goes, my version of the story, which can only be challenged by some poor eight year-old white kid (who is probably actually quite rich):

This eight year-old in question had been ripping farts for the past few innings (this is the only part of the story for which I have witnesses to corroborate). In the midst of the not-so-raucous “Let’s Go Giants!”-chants, he let one go that nearly caused sixty precious dollars to come flying out of my mouth. I covered my nose. I looked at his face, to analyze that demon that was tormenting my nostrils. “Let’s Go blah-blah,” he chanted. “Let’s Go blah-blah.”

I was having trouble understanding the “blah-blah” that followed the “Let’s Go”-s. I became transfixed on his mouth. The members of my party were busy talking about the weather in California. The members of his party were busy watching the baseball game, or whatever was happening on the field at the time. It was just me and this little rascal.

I focused.

“Let’s Go Dodgers,” he chirped, hardly audible.

I froze.

“Let’s Go Dodgers,” he said again, at a similar decibel level.

I will pause here for some context: I am a 25 year-old, judgmental asshole wearing a Carlos Baerga, Cleveland Indians starter jacket, with an Indians road-hat on my head. I have no business being at this game, but I was there because my good friend Bridget was in town and wanted to see what most people would call one of the most beautiful ballparks in the country. It would be unfair of me to take issue with this kid’s cheering for a team who was not playing. However, the reality of the situation is that this kid was decked out, from head to toe, in Giants regalia, and he was at a game in which the Giants were playing the Cubs, with his family who were all wearing Giants gear, and he had just said “Let’s Go, Dodgers” ¬†at a volume that was only perceptible to my own ears. The only Indians fan in the house had just discovered a dirty, dirty secret. The only Indians fan in the house had just won the lottery.

I leaned in toward the boy.. “Did you just say… ‘Let’s Go, Dodgers?’ You can tell me bro, you can confide in me.” It is important to note that I think I actually used the term “confide”, as though he’d have any idea what that means.

He immediately went silent, shrinking into his seat, retreating into the comfort of his father’s arm. This guy wanted no part of Ricky Automatic.

“Bro, I’m serious, were you saying Let’s Go ‘Dodgers’? This can be between me and you.”

He acted like I did not exist, which was totally fair. I was the creepy, alcohol-breathed dude who happened to be sitting next to him in section 305 on a Friday night. I had heard him caught up in his own, bizarre, eight-year old world. I used to do a lot of weird shit when I was eight. When I was twelve, I made up an entire fictional roster for the Oregon Ducks baseball team. I played out every inning of every one of their games in my fictional universe until they won the College World Series. If that is what I was doing at twelve, lord only knows what kinds of things I was doing at age eight. This kid chanting “Let’s Go, Dodgers” at a Giants-Cubs game is hardly absurd, but I am a shameful person who was loving every minute of it.

I felt like this kid was trapped. He clearly was having extramarital urges toward the Dodgers. How else could you explain his rampant, but covert, chanting of “Let’s Go Dodgers!” while his family was supporting the home team with a chant dedicated to the Giants? I remember the day my father found my Oregon Ducks roster. I was scared to death. I denied, denied, denied. I did not want my father to think I was insane, which I obviously was. I wonder if this kid feels the same way about his secret, one that, in my opinion, has further reaching consequences: I lived in fantasy land. This kid exists in a world of deceit, lies, and shameless, two-timing, NL West fandom.

It crossed my mind that I should kidnap him. I could rescue him from his torment. I could find a foster family for him in LA, where his dubious fandom would be accepted. I would just finish my ten-dollar beer, and tuck Mr. Fart-y under my arm, march him downstairs. Get on the ferry to Jack London Square. Hide him in my closet, allowing him to come out while I was home alone and watching the Indians game. We could switch the channel to see how the Dodgers were doing, every now and then. Then, I would bring him to LA the following weekend, where his Dodgers-fever could be alleviated.

If his parents forgave him for being a traitor, I would return him immediately. If they accepted his being a fan of the Dodgers, I would hand him over, intent on his life retaining some sense of normalcy. This kid was only eight, and he clearly needed his parents! But he also needed his parents to realize that he was different. He liked the Dodgers, despite the Giants jersey, hat and jacket.

Alas, I left the game without kidnapping him. I’ve been thinking about the poor guy ever since. As the Giants lost that night, 3-2 in an classic AT&T Park barn-burner, I wondered if he was secretly happy about his favorite team’s rivals losing. I wondered if he would ever come out to his parents as a Dodgers fan. I wondered if his parents would disown him upon this revelation, and I would forever have myself to blame for not saving him on that brisk July night in San Francisco.

The poor bastard.