Slipping on stray peanut shells, I fall getting these old bones down the stadium stairs. Nothing’s broken, and I manage to crawl to my seat. A fracture would’ve been rock bottom, emergency surgery an end to my streak. 385 consecutive home games attended.

I have an addiction. 

The crowd boos when Kapler emerges from the dugout to remove Desclafani. Disco’s pitching a shutout, but analytics say he gives it up third time through the lineup.

Bochy would’ve left him in. Like he did with Bumgarner in 2014, for the last out of the World Series.

No Bumgarner now. No Bochy, Posey, or anyone with championship rings. Just these replacement-level players who can’t field routine grounders, heading for 100 losses.

I’ve seen each loss. One at a time.

Is this rock bottom?

I look around the empty upper deck, the pink and orange sky beyond Triple’s Alley. Ballpark sunsets make me remember.

When I showed up drunk in my scrubs, couldn’t even hold a scalpel straight, and the cops came to escort me out of the operating room.

When Julia packed her suitcase, drove off, and two weeks later, College Hunks Hauling Junk arrived to take everything else.

Nine years, six months, three days sober. Got my 24-hour sobriety medallion the day the Giants won the World Series.

The remaining fans zombie-walk out of the stadium, after Garcia gives up a three-run bomb in the 9^th inning. The lefty-lefty matchup had looked good on paper.

Hopefully, Garcia will get another chance tomorrow.