Bressoud and Hegan pop out.
"I was hoping for a big inning," says the fisherman, lowering his radio for the passage of the commercial. "If they'd have a big inning I could stop listening and start working." His boat rocks upon the water.
At Seals Stadium, where Brother Joe and Brother Dominic and Brother Vince once played, the inning turns. At the Wharf, salt mist forms on the gentleman's spectacles, he removes them, wipes them, replaces them. "A run is a run," he says.
"Maybe," says the fisherman.
The bare-chested mason at Candlestick Park thought he'd sit out the third inning. His companions were a transistor radio, a thermos bottle of coffee, and a critical observer who asked, "How are you going to build a ball park sitting down?"
"Listen," the mason said, "I've been working like a slave since before the Giants got out of bed this morning."
Some of the light towers were up. Some were still lying on the ground. Some of the roof was on. Some was off. Some of the seats were in. Some weren't. The wind stirred the dust, and a man on a mowing machine rode back and forth across the outfield where a World Series would be played if the Giants won and the park were done.
Chicago was retired one-two-three. "That's the way to do it," the mason said. "Some day I'll tell my grandchildren, 'See this ball park. I built it.' "
There had been many delays. There had been a teamster strike. There had been harsh exchanges between the architect and the contractor. Mayor Christopher—running for re-election as the man who "gets things done"—had been drawn into the dispute. "I am apprehensive lest the absence of Mr. Bolles [the architect who designed the stadium] delay some of this important construction," the mayor said, but some things can't move any faster than they can move, not even for the mayor of San Francisco.