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"A swing … and a miss!" the sportscaster cried. Though he was describing the action at the plate, his call fit the drama in the stands. I'd turned a beautiful day at the ballpark into a major league mishap.

I love basketball not baseball, but Lizzie, my wife of two years, is a diehard Giants fan. She's been watching Barry Bonds longer than we've known each other. So I thought it would be a great idea to take her to an actual Giants game at AT&T Park in San Francisco. Home run for me! She was thrilled.

Our seats were spectacular, and the sun was shining. Somewhere in the third inning, my wife remarked on the hot dogs a fellow fan was enjoying. It was random, much like the comments she makes when we pass a jewelry store window: "Nice bracelet!" I find it difficult to discern which of these observations fall into the category of a passing thought and which signal I should march into the store and buy the bangle.

Inspired by the flawless day, I decided I'd buy the

bangle … er, hot dog. Lizzie will be so delighted! I thought. Without a word, I slipped from my seat and hurried off to snag my surprise treat for my love.

It took a while to find the stand that served hot dogs. Since the line extended to the restrooms, I decided it was a good time for a potty break. Then I noticed someone with a Giants blanket. "Where did you get that?" I asked.

"They're free when you sign up for a Giants credit card," he answered.

My mind whirled with a new plan. First the little boys' room, then the free blanket, then a hot dog. Wouldn't Lizzie be thrilled when I returned with a Giants blanket and a dog? Perfect!

Several innings later, I'd made it through the restroom and found the credit card/blanket kiosk—located on the other side of the stadium. Eventually I trekked back to the hot dog line, proudly clutching my woven treasure.

At the window the vender asked, "What do you want on your dog?"

I was stumped; somehow in all our discussions that topic had never come up. To keep the line moving,

I said, "Everything!" and then watched him pile onions, sauerkraut, and peppers atop my lover's surprise. I paid $12.50 for one hot dog but consoled myself that the blanket was free.

Like a knight bearing the spoils from battle, I headed for my seat. But the usher was keeping everyone from entering. Something about Barry Bonds. Something happening on the field. That's right, there was a baseball game going on.

I sighed. What an inconvenience to my romantic adventure.

Finally, I was allowed back to my seat. As dramatically as possible, I presented my gifts of love. My wife, excitedly chatting with the fans surrounding her, looked quizzically at the blanket and then quickly hid it under her seat.

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