The "In" Crowd Converges outside Pacific Bell Park
Note: This was one of those rare assignments that I felt so fortunate to have had a chance to do: Cover the World Series in San Francisco. My job was to tell the story of the fans who went to the park, finding any angle I could.
By Corey Lyons
Conta Costa Newspapers
Oct. 23, 2002
It's perhaps the city's only family-friendly peep show, a breathtaking view of Pacific Bell Park through a chain-link fence.
They call it "the knothole," a wildly popular stadium feature that gives the park an unrivaled sense of intimacy.
But the waterfront area has also become a community gathering place for drifters, boaters, joggers and diehard Giants fans. Tuesday, during Game 3 of the World Series, the area behind the right field wall transformed into a counterculture festival for people who hated monkeys or lacked tickets.
"Rally Monkey, the other white meat," read a sign one woman held proudly.
Hundreds of fans shuffled along the waterfront promenade, clamoring for a quick view of the game or gazing out at a nautical knot of bobbing things in McCovey Cove.
Smells of cigarettes, popcorn and marijuana lingered in the air.
Two blimps, dozens of gulls and banner-pulling planes cluttered the gray skies above.
In a sort of isolated community, the promenade drew a wide cast of characters who carried placards and shouted with bullhorns.
Dozens of craft crowded McCovey Cove, carrying Elvis impersonators and giddy fans who straddled masts for a better view.
A huge line formed along the brick facade, all of whom were waiting for a stint at the knothole.
Adam Tomar, 25, strummed a banjo while waiting in line.
He sold two tickets for $600. "But I still get to see a quick glimpse or two of the game," said the Berkeley man. "I just couldn't pass up the $600."
Normally only 24 people are allowed inside the knothole at a time, with a fresh batch every three innings.
But for the World Series, 100 people were allowed inside the gated room, which offers a spectacular view of right field. Matt Jay, wearing flashing magnetic clip lights on his calf and ear lobes, got inside the area early after making friends with the security staff during the playoffs.
"I asked them, pretend like I'm a hot chick and hook me up," Jay said. He had spent three fruitless hours on the telephone trying to get tickets.
Once the game got started, fans stood in lines six deep to steal a glimpse through the fence.
With World Series tickets fetching $400 to $5,000 apiece, few complained.
A fan who calls himself a "free ticket man" held out hope of joining the other 42,000 throats inside.
This year, he has gotten into 70 of 78 games for free with an ingenious sign made of foam and duct tape: "True fan needs a free ticket."
"It's the true fan part that gets everyone," said Lucas, who does not use a first name.
Instead of grousing about tickets, the fans bonded over their collective hatred of Anaheim's warm-and-fuzzy Rally Monkey. (Hey, the Dodgers weren't available.)
Eric Herlitz quickly became a featured promenade act, dangling a stuffed monkey on a noose for passersby to pummel.
"Spank the monkey," he shouted between sips on a can of beer.
Excited fans flogged the battered toy with their shoes, skateboards, briefcases, even a wheelchair and a motorcycle.
If someone declined to touch the mangled monkey, they heard about it: "YOU'RE AN ANGELS FAN!"
Not far away, Tony DeCoteau stood on a folding chair near the railing for McCovey Cove. He shows up here to scoop up home-run balls. Period.
"This is the best seat outside the house," said the 45-year-old Hayward painter.
"You can see the batter's box from here," he said, pointing through the right field fence. "I get to see the ball hit first. The boaters get us once in a while, but it gives them something to row about."
By Corey Lyons
Conta Costa Newspapers
Oct. 23, 2002
It's perhaps the city's only family-friendly peep show, a breathtaking view of Pacific Bell Park through a chain-link fence.
They call it "the knothole," a wildly popular stadium feature that gives the park an unrivaled sense of intimacy.
But the waterfront area has also become a community gathering place for drifters, boaters, joggers and diehard Giants fans. Tuesday, during Game 3 of the World Series, the area behind the right field wall transformed into a counterculture festival for people who hated monkeys or lacked tickets.
"Rally Monkey, the other white meat," read a sign one woman held proudly.
Hundreds of fans shuffled along the waterfront promenade, clamoring for a quick view of the game or gazing out at a nautical knot of bobbing things in McCovey Cove.
Smells of cigarettes, popcorn and marijuana lingered in the air.
Two blimps, dozens of gulls and banner-pulling planes cluttered the gray skies above.
In a sort of isolated community, the promenade drew a wide cast of characters who carried placards and shouted with bullhorns.
Dozens of craft crowded McCovey Cove, carrying Elvis impersonators and giddy fans who straddled masts for a better view.
A huge line formed along the brick facade, all of whom were waiting for a stint at the knothole.
Adam Tomar, 25, strummed a banjo while waiting in line.
He sold two tickets for $600. "But I still get to see a quick glimpse or two of the game," said the Berkeley man. "I just couldn't pass up the $600."
Normally only 24 people are allowed inside the knothole at a time, with a fresh batch every three innings.
But for the World Series, 100 people were allowed inside the gated room, which offers a spectacular view of right field. Matt Jay, wearing flashing magnetic clip lights on his calf and ear lobes, got inside the area early after making friends with the security staff during the playoffs.
"I asked them, pretend like I'm a hot chick and hook me up," Jay said. He had spent three fruitless hours on the telephone trying to get tickets.
Once the game got started, fans stood in lines six deep to steal a glimpse through the fence.
With World Series tickets fetching $400 to $5,000 apiece, few complained.
A fan who calls himself a "free ticket man" held out hope of joining the other 42,000 throats inside.
This year, he has gotten into 70 of 78 games for free with an ingenious sign made of foam and duct tape: "True fan needs a free ticket."
"It's the true fan part that gets everyone," said Lucas, who does not use a first name.
Instead of grousing about tickets, the fans bonded over their collective hatred of Anaheim's warm-and-fuzzy Rally Monkey. (Hey, the Dodgers weren't available.)
Eric Herlitz quickly became a featured promenade act, dangling a stuffed monkey on a noose for passersby to pummel.
"Spank the monkey," he shouted between sips on a can of beer.
Excited fans flogged the battered toy with their shoes, skateboards, briefcases, even a wheelchair and a motorcycle.
If someone declined to touch the mangled monkey, they heard about it: "YOU'RE AN ANGELS FAN!"
Not far away, Tony DeCoteau stood on a folding chair near the railing for McCovey Cove. He shows up here to scoop up home-run balls. Period.
"This is the best seat outside the house," said the 45-year-old Hayward painter.
"You can see the batter's box from here," he said, pointing through the right field fence. "I get to see the ball hit first. The boaters get us once in a while, but it gives them something to row about."
posted by Corey at 12:55 PM
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