SFGate

Picture it. It's sunny - and it usually is; the fog has burned off - and just the right temperature, and the bay stretches from horizon to horizon north and south, and ahead of the boat, visible from what I believe they call the fo'c'sle (your apostrophes may vary) is this vision of a ballyard, a field-of-dreams sort of place, growing larger as you approach. And the boat docks right there in McCovey Cove, right near the kayakers (although what they are looking for in the post-Bonds era is anyone's guess) and you spill out onto the causeway, just steps away from the right-field gate, and join the happy throng ambling into the park.

No traffic jams. No parking-lot squabbles. Instead of carbon monoxide, you get to breathe fresh sea air. And at the end of your journey, just before the first pitch, perhaps a hot dog and garlic fries. Both will be overpriced, of course, but we've long since accepted that. Our resistance was futile. Where's the pickle relish?

I went on Saturday, also known as the "good day" in the three-game series against the Cincinnati Redlegs. Our lads won 4-2; Benjamin José "Bengie" Molina hit a home run; Barry Zito pitched like a pitcher. Much joy among the ranks. We had seats right behind home plate because we know a guy who got season tickets back in the Stone Age and gradually moved up, so I could see Zito's curveball in real time and close up, and yow. Yow!

We were sitting next to two scouts, one for the Mets and one for the Yankees. They had score books in their laps, special scouting score books, and they noted every pitch, every hit, making arcane squiggles and writing down numbers that did not appear to relate to anything. Perhaps I should not have been looking, but the Mets guy saw me looking and did not ask me to stop. There's not an expectation of privacy at the old ballyard.

Perhaps he intuited that I could not crack his code.

Both of them had speed guns (devices that measure the speed of a pitch), and before every pitch they would raise the guns in unison and point them at the pitcher. It was like sitting next to a pair of assassins. And they kept up a stream of chatter that was almost as incomprehensible as their notations. From what I could overhear - and overhearing is also OK at the ballpark, I feel, because half the time you can't help it and everyone does it and I forget the other reason - the chatter had nothing to do with the game at hand.

They were talking about other players, minor leaguers was my guess, and frankly assessing their chances of success in the big leagues. Now I suspect that scouts do not give away trade secrets to the opposition, but it's in the interest of both parties to chat and try to pick up a little nugget here and there.

The other thing they talked about was airplane travel. Scouts do a lot of it - one guy was flying off to Philly after the game, then down to Atlanta, then a day in Washington, then to Chicago. It was mostly on United, and he had a low opinion of United. The other scout had a low opinion of Delta. I wondered if they flew in business class - God knows the Yankees at least could afford it - but I suspected not.

The scouts made me feel like an insider at the game, albeit an insider without inside information.

During the sixth inning, one of the ball dudes asked his sweetheart to marry him using the big scoreboard. (Public marriage proposals are now pretty common at baseball games.) Then the lucky couple appeared on the big screen, and she leaned over the railing to hug him, and the crowd cheered and applauded, and it was a moment. I've always wondered what would happen if the women in question - it's usually a woman - said no. Would she get booed? Best course: Say yes, then take it back in privacy. Scoreboard proposals are not binding.

Took the ferry home in the late afternoon, watching the sun shine silver on the water. Some days are just better than others, and this was one of those.

And I said, I don't care if they lay me off either, because I told, I told Bill that if they move my desk one more time, then, then I'm, I'm quitting, I'm going to quit. And, and I told Don too, because they've moved my desk four times already this year, and I used to be over by the window, and I could see the squirrels, and they were married, but then, they switched from the Swingline to jcarroll@sfchronicle.com.

This article appeared on page E - 6 of the San Francisco Chronicle