Yesterday I went to Giants Fanfest. It was free, as always, but this time was at the ballpark. Last year it was in a large warehouse across the cove.

They should move it back to the warehouse.

You see, concourse areas at ballparks are very narrow. And normally, thousands of people aren’t moving around in there at the same time — usually people are in their seats. Only after the game is over does everyone cram into the halls and stairs all at once. And then, it is bearable because everyone is moving toward the same place: the exit.

But yesterday, thousands of people were expected to shove through these passageways, passing booths and concessions and photo areas and little amusements for kids, etc. It was incredibly uncomfortable and packed and awful. I managed to get through to the seating areas, where I looked out on a large field of dirt. The diamond and outfield weren’t sod at all. Looked like a construction site.

Upstairs there were autograph tables. I traveled up there and was faced with an even TIGHTER space to navigate through, and many many lines that were a hundred people deep. Awful. I don’t care much about autographs of any kind. So I left.

Before I left, I bought a couple of Barry Zito t-shirts. One for me and one for my friend Whitney, who lives in New York but has always been a fan of his. I texted her to let her know I got her the shirt, she texted back that she was snowboarding at the Sundance Film Festival. But of course!

Okay, cut to this morning. Whitney tells me, “I hugged Barry Zito.”

I’m like, wtf? How? He was just at fanfest!

But Barry Zito is a jet setter, a rock star. He flew directly to Park City from his signing gig here in SF, met Whit at a party there, and gave her a drunken embrace. She managed to tell him that I had just been at fanfest hours before, buying her a tshirt, but he may have been too trashed to absorb this imprortant info.

I’m stoked for her though. She’s loved him even longer than I have.