The Giants had come back to win that playoff game in the 10 th inning. I could hear the postgame radio show as I slithered into my down sleeping bag and curled into fetal position. I turned my radio to full volume to keep the huntress away and slammed the rickety door shut on my trailer. It leaped, stopped for another snarl, and was gone into the night. I screamed, made myself big with my hands in the air, flung rocks and water bottles in the general direction of the creeping large cat. The hungry cat must have smelled the sausage I boiled for dinner on my cookstove, and now it could smell my fear. Pointing a trembling flashlight toward the disturbance revealed the iridescent eyes of a mountain lion. Something big was crashing through the brush behind my trailer. Sandoval lashed a double down the leftfield line and Posey drove him in with the tying run. What will I do out here without the ball games to listen to? It can’t end like this, I thought to myself. Panik was down to his last strike and I was starting to shiver. You could hear the desperation in Duane Kuiper’s voice describing the moment-behind 2-0 in a best of five series against the Reds. The San Francisco Giants were in trouble. My radio was blaring a tense playoff game as the night turned black. It was early October and getting cold at my primitive campsite. I lived like a hermit then, often going for two weeks at a time without seeing another human. The Giants play-by-play voices of Kuiper, Krukow, Fleming, and Greenwald became my welcome company. America’s game broadcasting in Gaia, deep in Northern California’s Emerald Forest, interwoven with my job as a cannabis farmer. Baseball: the only sport that’s always good on the radio.
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