Free Searching for Candlestick Park by Peg Kehret Page A

sweat. But it was worth it; I was now in Oregon, and that seemed lots closer to my goal than Washington had.
    It was past noon when I came to the town of Grafton. I walked my bike along the sidewalk on Main Street, looking down. Maybe I would get lucky and find some money. When I passed a pay telephone, I put my fingers in the coin return, just in case someone had forgotten to pick up their change. It was empty.
    I passed an appliance store that had a row of television sets in the window. All of them were tuned to the same channel: a baseball game. I stopped to watch, and a tingle of excitement ran down the back of my neck.
    “It’s the Giants,” I told Foxey. “The Giants and the Pittsburgh Pirates.” My spirits rose and I stood close to the window, staring at one of the screens. It showed the score, and I saw that the Giants were batting in the bottom of the seventh. That means the Giants are home team, I thought. This game is being televised from Candlestick Park.
    I took it as a good omen, and I watched carefully, hoping the camera would zoom in on the crowd. Maybe I would see Dad at the game! Wouldn’t that be something?
    That’s where I’m going, I told myself. In another week, I’ll be there, sitting in the stands with Dad, watching the Giants in person. We’ll take along a big bag of peanuts in the shell, and later Dad will buy me a frozen malt or a soft drink.
    “Are you a baseball fan?”
    I jumped at the voice. An older man had joined me on the sidewalk. He held a bag of popcorn.
    “Yes,” I said. “Especially the Giants.”
    “Me, too. Used to play some ball myself, years ago. Never made it to the majors, but I had a great time anyway.” He ate a handful of popcorn.
    He wore a plaid shirt, and suspenders held his pantsup. His face looked like Santa Claus without a beard.
    “Have some popcorn?” he asked, extending the bag toward me.
    I heard Mama’s voice in my mind: Never talk to strangers. Never accept food or money from someone you don’t know.
    I could smell the popcorn.
    I stuck my hand in the bag. “Thanks,” I said.
    We watched the rest of the inning in silence. When the commercials came on, the man said, “Haven’t seen you around before. You new in town, are you?”
    “Just visiting,” I said.
    He offered the popcorn again, and this time I accepted immediately.
    “You think the Giants have a chance at the World Series?” he asked.
    “They’re a cinch,” I said.
    He laughed. “I hope you’re right.”
    We watched another half inning and then the man said, “I’ve had enough popcorn. Do you want the rest, or should I toss it?”
    “I’ll take it,” I said. “Thanks.”
    He handed me the half-full bag, and I gobbled up all but the last inch, which I saved for Foxey. Right at that moment, popcorn tasted even better than Mama’s macaroni and cheese.
    The man watched me eat, but said nothing.
    Pittsburgh went down one-two-three in the top of the ninth, which ended the game.
    “Why did you save some of the popcorn?” the man asked, pointing at the sack, which I had carefully folded so the popcorn wouldn’t spill.
    “It’s for my cat.”
    “Is your cat hungry?”
    “Not right now. I have some cat food, but it might not last as long as it needs to, so I feed him other things when I can.”
    “My cat died not long ago,” the man said, “and I still have a couple of boxes of cat food at home. If you want to come home with me, you can have them.”
    I hesitated. What if the old man was some sort of crazed child molester? What if he locks kids in his closets and lets them starve to death? I had been too gullible when I believed that Jay was going to buy me a plate of spaghetti. I couldn’t afford another bad choice.
    “You wouldn’t have to come inside, if you don’t want to,” the man said. “I know your folks have probably told you never to go anywhere with a stranger.”
    I nodded.
    “It’s just a few blocks,” he said, and started off down the