Absurdly Driven looks at the world of business with a skeptical eye and a firmly rooted tongue in cheek. 

It was 10 miles away, but I didn't even know it existed.

Then one day, a friend said: "Why don't you come with us to a Pacifics game?"

"What's that?"

"It's a minor, minor, minor league baseball team that's a lot of fun."

I had no conception how minor this would be.

Would there be seats? Would there even be umpires? Just how bad was this?

It wasn't bad at all.

There were maybe 500 in the crowd for this San Rafael Pacifics game. The seats were mostly arrayed behind home plate, with netting in between you and facial surgery.

There was beer. Good beer. There was wine. OK wine. 

But there was an atmosphere far removed from anything I could have imagined.

Albert Park in San Rafael, California is enclosed enough for you to believe you're in the Midwest.

It's a field of (small) dreams and solid souls.

Four years after my first visit, the San Rafael Pacifics had become a regular element of my twisted little life.

After a hard, or merely annoying, day I'd wander up there -- sometimes with my wife -- and just listen to the sound of bat on ball and YMCA in the middle of the 4th inning. 

Everyone danced, because that's just what you do.

You'd drink your Track 7, eat your Round Table Pizza and bathe your guilt in a Chocolate Bundt Cake from Nothing Bundt Cakes.

And now it might all be over.

Last weekend, it was the playoffs.

It's not quite like Major League Baseball.

The Pacific Association of Professional Baseball Clubs only has six teams and four make the playoffs.

So it's a little like the NHL.

The semi-final, a home game against the Vallejo Admirals, was about as easy as pulling a submerged cork out of a wine bottle. With your finger.

We won 3-2, but only thanks to pitching from Jared Koenig -- formerly of the Monterey Amberjacks and the Salina Stockade -- and Max Beatty -- formerly of the Chicago White Sox system.

The final was to be the next day in Sonoma against the hometown Stompers. 

My wife and I made an evening of it. We booked an early table at a Sonoma restaurant.

The evening didn't begin well. We arrived at the restaurant, only to be told by the hostess: "I feel obligated to tell you that the next people are arriving in 75 minutes."

Perhaps they knew we were Pacifics fans.

We felt obligated to have a couple of appetizers and leave within 45 minutes. And go to another restaurant.

And now it might all be over.

The Final was beautiful from the first moments. 

Our recently-acquired starting pitcher Angel Ventura -- formerly of the Milwaukee Brewers system -- pitched as if the strike zone was three feet away.

The Stompers' batters were like marching band drum majors, waving their sticks in pretty patterns, but to no effective purpose.

Meanwhile the Stompers' starting pitcher couldn't throw strikes, so our batters just strolled around the bases.

Naturally, some fans got into a fight.

We had seats in the grandly-named grandstand. For reasons of perhaps misappropriated testosterone, a Pacifics fan and a Stompers fan began jawing. 

Yes, of course they were both in their 40s.

We moved to the bleachers, picking up a slightly inferior IPA along the way.

It was a good move. In the bleachers, the Pacifics interns mingled with many other stray fans to create a loud chorus of defiance.

Soon, we slipped in a couple of home runs and it was over. 6-0. It could have been 60.

The players drenched each other in champagne. Ach, it was likely Prosecco.

And now it might all be over.

At the Pacifics, I've witnessed a Donald Trump protest night, where a Trump lookalike was chased by children around the bases and physically impeached by the Pacifics mascot.

We all got red Make Baseball Great Again hats as gifts.

I've witnessed players come and go, hoping to perform in at least a slightly brighter -- but surely not warmer -- spotlight than this.

I've witnessed players take part in speed-dating. Yes, during the game.

I've seen the first-ever professional game where balls and strikes were called by a robot umpire. Former Major Leaguer Eric Byrnes voiced the umpire's calls. 

I've seen a boxing match occur in the middle of a game.

Talking of fighting, I've seen two umpires -- that's all the league can afford for most games -- both miss a ground rule double and declare it a home run.

The next pitch was called a ball. This caused the aforementioned Beatty to sling a ball at the ump. It missed him by inches and didn't look like a changeup.

The ump then charged Beatty. The other ump attacked him too. 

A melee ensued in which the road team didn't know whom to hit first.

And now it might all be over.

The ownership group, led by former San Francisco Giants executive Mike Shapiro, says it's had enough. They're tired. They've given so much heart, soul and imagination to a singularly local team that they have nothing left.

The San Rafael Pacifics are up for sale. 

If no one buys it, I fear it might die.

What am I going to do next summer?

The Pacifics was one of those rare things that feels both local and soulful. 

We're talking about Marin County, California here. It's where people express their souls' deepest longing by buying a Tesla. The biggest Tesla they can find.

The Pacifics, says Shapiro, break even. The average crowd is 450.

Who's going to take on a business that merely breaks even? Everyone's in sports for the money, right?

Yet this is the sort of pursuit that's undertaken purely for the love of it and to contribute something to the community.

The players stay with host families and earn somewhere between $600-800 a month for a three-month season.

And former stars do pass through.

This year, we had former Toronto Blue Jays, L.A. Dodgers (and several other teams) reliever J.P. Howell start for us once or twice. 

The Pittsburg Diamonds had former Seattle Mariners, Houston Astros (and several other teams) pitcher Travis Blackley throw for them.

And now it might all be over.

Look, this is how much it got to me.

A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I drove to Martinez, California (look it up) to see the Pacifics play. 

The food truck at the ballpark was very good. The wines, a Pinot Noir and a Viognier, were excellent. (It seems the Martinez Clippers' owner is part-owner of the winery. Good marketing, see?)

The Pacifics lost 19-3 and we had a lovely time.

We chatted with the locals and exchanged stories, while periodically bowing our heads in shame.

Last Sunday, the Pacifics won the championship for the fourth time out of the league's 7 years of existence.

Please don't let them die.