The moment was at hand. The honor guard was assembling. Our first World Series game was about to start. It was a nice fall evening, and we had good seats along the third base line. But something vital was missing: a hot dog and beer.
Four of us had flown in from Salt Lake City, where we worked in television and radio news. This was to be a much-needed break from deadline pressure to see the A's take on the Giants at home and maybe do a little carousing around San Francisco.
Having lost the coin flip, I went with a co-worker in search of the concession area. Emerging onto the outside ring of Candlestick, we ran into Lea, a friend from Utah who was now working for a satellite company in San Francisco.
Lea was an attractive woman, and when we hugged, the earth moved. Literally.