When I saw how the wind was howling to right during batting practice, visions flashed of a vintage Wrigley Field daymare, where anything airborne past the infield had a chance to clear the bleachers.
I should have remembered what happened in Candlestick after the outfield was double-decked for the 49ers.
Everything changed. Back when there was nothing to stop the prevailing northwest wind until it reached Oakland, across the bay, the hot-dog wrappers were plastered against the cyclone fence like mustard-stained wallpaper. When McCovey or Mays launched one to right, the ball would fly into the parking lot as if drawn by a giant magnet. But once there was an upper deck in right, the hot-dog wrappers would tumble toward right, then dance back toward the infield, often passing each other at different levels - outgoing on the ground, incoming 20 feet above it.
And that was the scene unfolding when Cliff Lee inherited the wind. He could have been pitching on a windless afternoon in a vast ballpark while surrounded by eight Gold Glovers who read the gusts like Ted Turner at the helm of Courageous in the 1977 America's Cup.
With one out in the third, Dexter Fowler, the Rock's fleet centerfielder, curled a pop foul to left that was headed toward ballgirl territory. Jimmy Rollins went as fast and as far as I have ever seen him run to that area. J-Roll called it routine, more proof the game really does unfold in slow-motion for superstars.
There was nothing routine, however, about Todd Helton's shallow fly sliced toward No Man's Land well behind third to lead off the seventh inning. Pedro Feliz broke back. Rollins had the angle, darting onto the outfield grass from short.
