Springtime used to be my favorite time of year until you ruined it for me. Okay, maybe I shouldn't generalize; it was just three of you, not all of you. But three was all it took. If it wasn't for you, I'd be front and center at the Dodger Stadium box office, laying down my hard-earned money for premium tickets for Opening Day like I did every spring, but not anymore. Thanks a million.

I still love baseball, though. That'll never change. I’m probably the biggest baseball fan you’ll find in So-Cal. Actually, I’m into a lot of sports, but I just have a passion for baseball, the way it moves at a leisurely clip like a warm, summer day should. And it’s timeless. No matter how talented you think these young millionaires are today, they still have to measure themselves against Hammerin’ Hank, Dimaggio, Ruth, Drysdale, all the great ones. The old names never die.

I wish every so-called “baseball fan” could appreciate the sport like I do, especially around these parts. Ever notice when you go to a ballgame if somebody barks out an ugly word or two, everybody turns and looks at him like he's just punched a child in the face? I hate that. For crying out loud, people, it’s a baseball game! What’s wrong with getting off your ass and cheering for your team until your throat gets raw? Everybody’s so P.C. now, it makes me sick! Nobody wants to hurt anybody’s feelings. Enough, already! If an umpire makes the worst call you’ve ever seen in your life, let him have it. If an infielder makes an error, you remind him of it every time he steps on the field. That’s what this game is all about, what it was built on. Anybody can buy a ticket, wear a replica jersey they got at some cheap department store and watch a game like a Broadway play, but it’s fans like me who give baseball its flavor, it’s distinction. Even now, I’m not ashamed of my behavior. If you ever write a thesis, a newspaper column or even a book about me if you think I deserve it, make sure you include this: "You know that guy, Luther Bragg? He treated every game like it was the last one he’d ever see in his life.”

At least, I did so in my own ballpark. Dodger Stadium was the only big league ballpark I had seen in my life (since Fernandomania), and it was a dream of mine to visit all of them. One day, I guess it was several years ago, I took a mini-vacation and made the road trip to San Francisco to see them at SBC Park. My ticket (I went alone; my girlfriend wasn't interested) was in the right field bleachers, only for the purpose of catching a Barry Bonds home run. Yeah, I know the guy’s a bum, but it would have made a hell of a souvenir. The view was a long way from home plate, about 420 feet from the fence, but still a decent place to watch the game, which wasn't exactly a sellout.

Now, I know how irritating it is to sit in your home stadium next to a bunch of yahoos rooting for the other team, but it's their right, just like it was my right to wear my Dodger Blue road jersey in SBC Park. It's the whole First Amendment argument: I can't yell "Fire!" in a crowded theatre, but I can yell "Go Dodgers!" in any damn ballpark I want. Of course there might be some repercussions, like the hometown faithful screaming back things like "Sit Down!", "Shaddup!" or "Go Home!", or depending on the size of their balls, lobbing peanuts at me, or maybe a cup of beer. Hey, it happens. Like Harry Caray used to say, “Nothing like fun at the ol’ ballpark.”

Well, there was plenty for me to cheer about. The Giants’ starting pitching had struggled for most of the year, and in this game, we had their worst pitcher on his worst performance of the season. Just one and two-thirds innings into it, L.A. toasted him for seven runs off ten hits. The relievers weren't much better. For every grey uniform that crossed the plate, I made my presence felt in a huge way. While most of the Frisco fans treated me with equal amounts of disdain and respect, I do remember hearing some smack from a bunch of guys behind me. “You’ll still be in last place, loser!” I heard one of them say. I love it when they feed me weak lines like that. I turned around and said, “The way you clowns are pitching, they might drop you out of the league!” We went back and forth for almost the whole game like that. It was beautiful.

By the eighth inning I didn’t hear them anymore, which was good for me because I was running out of things to say. I assumed either they gave up, passed out, or were escorted to another section.

I stayed for all nine innings, unlike half the 20,000 or so "fans" who bailed by the seventh inning stretch. The final score escapes me, but we whooped their asses pretty good. Walking out of that ballpark I felt like I usually do after a Dodger win: proud, optimistic and basking in the overall experience.

I had no idea my life was in danger.

SBC Field’s parking lot was no more expansive and confusing than most other huge parking lots. I made a mental note of what section I was in, but by the time the game was over I had forgotten that I had driven a rental car to Frisco, and it made my search time a few minutes longer. Just a little too long.

I hadn't noticed the three college kids following me until they caught up with me just a few feet from my car. "Hey, Dodger fan!" one of them sneered in a familiar way. A part of me wanted to run like hell, but for some reason in this instance I felt more compelled to stand my ground and look my adversaries in the eye. Maybe it was my naive belief that all these jokers wanted to do was hurl one last blast of insult at me to validate their team after a debilitating loss, or at worst, scare me into never setting foot in their city again. I assumed the latter as they surrounded me, covered in authentic San Francisco jerseys. Two were wearing their caps backwards; one had his hair cut like Joey on "Friends"; all hid their eyes behind expensive-looking Oakleys. They were all muscular "jock" types buzzing on a deadly combination of testosterone, beer and team spirit. Ten years ago, when I was their age, I probably would have been stupid enough to try to take them on.

They carried no weapons, but standing within a foot of me they didn't need to. The guy with the Joey haircut spoke up. "Going home, faggot?"

I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I had to. “Interesting choice of words,” I said, “this being San Francisco and all.”

They laughed, but not in an agreeable way. This laughter was more condescending, as if they were laughing more at the pleasure they were about to take in beating the crap out of me. My tune changed in a hurry. I looked around them at the parking lot. Everyone in the immediate area was either gone or not paying attention. It was the loneliest I had ever felt in my life.

I muttered something resembling an apology and pleaded for them to let me go, only to hear "He's getting scared, man! Look at him! He looks like a fucking girl!" There was no reasoning with mentalities like theirs.

My throat was drying up and swelling like I had just swallowed a balloon. The three goons were still talking shit to me, but paying attention to them became very low on my list of priorities. I didn't just pray; I internally screamed for God, if not for a machine gun or a sudden bestowment of superpowers, then just an answer, an option.

I sized up a gap between two of them and made a break for it. They grabbed me and immediately started pummeling me from head to toe. All manner of self-defense was inadequate. Their fists felt like sledgehammers against my guts and my ribs. One shot landed under my chin and I went limp, and the sunshine faded out. When it came back, the concrete was cooking my cheek, and I felt more hammers on my body, larger and harder ones that resembled shoes. One made my skull feel flat and made my ears ring. That and the taste of blood and bile in my mouth were the last sensations I ever felt. Those idiots probably had no idea they were killing me, but they did.

And I died, right there in the parking lot of a foreign baseball stadium, hundreds of miles from home, without saying goodbye to Mom and Dad, sooner and more violently than I would have preferred.

I didn't know what to expect from death. I was raised to believe in God, but I was never much of churchgoer. Maybe that's why I ended up here instead of heaven, I don't know. At least I'm not smelling brimstone or picking pitchforks out of my ass, and I'm grateful for that. But I'm not sure if this is better. I always thought after you die, you never have to worry about anything ever again. Not that I had any inside information; it was just an assumption. You either swim in rivers of fire or hitchhike on a cloud. Either way, anything having to do with Planet Earth is out the window, no longer your problem.

Not in my case, I guess. No tunnel of light, no singing angels, and if God has a face I haven't seen an inch of it yet. Actually, I'm still hanging out in this stadium, waiting for spring and the first ballgame of the year. And you know what really sucks? I can't leave. Believe me, every time I've tried to get away, something brings me back...some kind of weird feeling, like there's something I have to do here. It's like being forced to live in house you don't like, and instead of packing up and leaving you fix it up, but no matter how many times you move the furniture or change the drapes, it's still not right.

So I kinda float around and fix up the stadium. I mess with the groundskeeping equipment, make the lights go out on occasion, put some feedback in the P.A. system, little things. Been doing it for a long time, but I'm not sure how long; time doesn't mean a whole lot to me now. The Giants haven't won a home game since I died. Not one! I've made sure of it. All those little mishaps that made the difference between a win and a loss...seeing-eye ground balls, late-inning errors, horrible calls from the umpire...those were all me. All me. Everybody's made a big deal out of it around here. "The Curse of Luther Bragg" they call it. It's flattering in a way. But all that crap is small potatoes compared to what I have in mind for this year. I'm making it personal this time. Expect a couple of torn ACL's, or the ace pitcher's arm snapped in half like a twig. I might even make an appearance in the locker room and scare a couple of players so bad they'll demand a trade. Maybe one of the coaches will get a heart attack. You never know.

Whether or not they catch the guys who beat me to a pulp and left me for dead in a scorching hot parking lot makes no difference. I'm here to stay. I'm fixing up your stinking ballpark, and I'm fixing it so that your San Francisco Giants never sniff the playoffs again. You see, they ruined spring for me. I can't help my team win anymore, so I'm gonna make yours lose.

I only wish I had my jersey.