Opening Day

"Sir, for our records, how would you characterize your relationship with reality?"

"Concrete. Rock solid. Thank you for asking."

It was sunny, but not warm -- the kind of day that can trick you into wearing shorts before it's a good idea.  We were pushing through the crowd, moving clockwise around the outside of Three Rivers Stadium.  "This is crazy," someone remarked. "I've never seen it this crowded."  None of us had. We'd never been to a home opener.

I was with my brother and both of us were with our girlfriends.   The tickets, waiting at the Will Call window, were from a friend of his.   He'd sprung them on us only days before. I wasn't enthusiastic about this trip in the least.  Being less than a fair weather fan, I was content to go to an occasional mid-season game when there was plenty of room to breathe.   But, I didn't complain.   I wasn't driving, I wasn't paying, I wasn't emotionally invested in how the game went.   There would be hot dogs and beers.   If I had enough of those, it would be easier to pee later in a crowded men's room with dudes whizzing in the sinks.

So I was very agreeable.   The four of us sat in our partially obstructed seats and I worked on a rare day-buzz while most of Pittsburgh rallied to boo Bobby Bonilla in this first at bat against the Pirates.   In protest, my brother's girlfriend stood and applauded him defiantly.

We cheered.  We sang.  It got cloudy.  It cleared up.  It was a pretty good day.

There's a snag, though.  Apparently, none of this happened.

The afternoon I just described exists vividly in my head.   I would swear, under oath, with a gun pressed to my temple, that it happened just as I described.  I know the name of the guy who gave us the tickets.   I know who filled in for me at work.   I know I wore neutral colors because I don't really truck with team paraphernalia.

But, years later, recounting the day with all of the involved parties drew only confused stares and a weird, weird silence.

"Sir, just to follow up, how would you characterize your relationship with reality?"

"Firm.   Very firm.  There's just a little bit of give, like you find in well-engineered bridges and skyscrapers.  But, you know, like I said.   Firm."

So, I have a false memory.  A big one.   Researchers tell us that most people do, although they trend toward things like thinking that you put the milk away when you've actually left it next to the blender.  Also, they tend to go unnoticed amid the banality of life.

The evidence against me:

• No one in that group remembers going to any home opener.   Ever.
• Bobby Bonilla left the Pirates at the end of the '91 season and signed with the Mets.  The '92 home opener was against the Expos.
• Wait! Maybe it was Barry Bonds! Nope.  Doesn't check out either.
• The needlessly detailed journal I used to keep mentions nothing about this game.

My defense:

• It's possible that the booing was from some other afternoon and that these three people have simply forgotten going to an unremarkable game.
• I've never been to Three Rivers on another crowded day.   If this didn't happen, I've NEVER seen it filled.
• I didn't know what will-call was before that afternoon.
• I don't know anything about baseball and it seems an unlikely subject for my subconscious to visit.  Hey!  Remember that time a week after my eighteenth birthday when a young Geena Davis asked me to rub sunblock on her?  Yeah, well neither do I.  THAT would be a fun imaginary thing to have in my head, you stupid brain.   But seriously, thanks for all the make-believe hot dogs.

Our temptation is to compare the brain and its functions to the most advanced technology we have.   It used to be steam engines, now it's computers.   Once human beings invented the motion picture camera, it became tempting to think of memory as that sort of machine, which is as wishful a notion as any.   I don't think there really is an apt mechanical metaphor for the way memory works.

I've come to think of my memory as a room full of mid-level office workers with pens and legal pads.   Sitting on uncomfortable furniture.  In itchy shirts.   Late on a Friday afternoon.

"Sir, just checking in, how would you characterize your relationship with reality?"

"Um... hopeful.  Strained but hopeful, I guess..."

Now, I exist in two different realities.   I have the experiential realm -- gooey layers of folded cerebral matter that hold the fading tracks and traces of a lifetime of sensory input.   It comprises all that I am.

And I also have this objective, peer-reviewed reality against which I can compare my fundamental truths.  With it, I can illustrate to myself that my notions of the world around me and my place in it are, in every philosophical sense, up for grabs.

I've lived with this notion for over ten years now.   It's not overwhelmingly troublesome, but it complicates situations where I need to be absolutely certain about anything.  There are a thousand variations of this conversation that I often have; sometimes with others, often with myself.

"Did you lock the back door?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"I'm absolutely positive."

"Great."

"But that doesn't mean it's locked. I'm just sure that I remember doing it. "

"Crap. Here we go."

"As we've learned, all perception is subjective and all experience drifts among the biochemical phantoms in our minds."

"Fine. Shut up. Stop it. Just give me the keys. I'll check the door."

[Feeling pockets] "I don't have them."

"Where are they?" 

[Feeling pockets again]  "I have a vivid memory of not locking them in the car."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"The good news is that it doesn't mean anything."

"Sir, just checking in, how would you characterize your relationship with reality?"

"Broken. I feel like every memory I have is layered with someone's fingerprints. So, I don't know what to trust. An hour after we're done, I'm going to lose most of the details of this moment forever and whatever remains will be in dispute. So, go yuck it up with the rest of your little buddies in The Matrix or whatever."

"But still.   Go Bucs, right?"

"Yes.   Of course."  (voice wavering) "Go Bucs."