There are no bad seats in Oracle Park.
In section 302, high up within the sempiternal crisp sea air that manages to somehow seep into your blood whether you want it to or not, you can see the delicate alpenglow of the sky reflect off the water of McCovey Cove if you turn your head to the right. Directly in front of you, the Bay Bridge, marked by blithe unconcern, stretches and almost disappears into the horizon. At night, the headlights of cars flicker and fade as the water below the bridge turns a deep and almost pearl-like ebony as the city lights ricochet in an almost dancing manner.