Ich bin Ein Giants Fans

The rally at San Francisco's City Hall wasn't exactly the fall of the Berlin Wall, but there was no shortage of emotion. Thousands upon thousands of smiling faces, all there sharing a common thought. There was no talk of race or gender or religion. On this day, we were all Giants Fans.

And what a party it was. There was an excitement permeating the air -- along with enough of another substance to make me think Prop 19 had actually passed. Jeez, I hadn't been in a crowd like this since I went to see The Who.

After 40 years of personal torture, I had to see this for myself. There are certain marvels you simply have to observe with your own eyes -- the birth of your child, an eclipse, or Angelina Jolie.

Departing my Bakersfield home at 4 am, I made my way downtown just in time for the start of festivities thanks to the glorious wonder that is BART (by the way, if you were trying to get into town from the Pleasanton station, SUCKERS! Castro Valley made for a much better option).

The Ranter went to San Francisco, and all he got was
a lousy trophy!

I can't explain the need to travel 300-plus miles just to stand in a crowd any more than I can explain my rather insane craving for Twix bars. I do know it wasn't about basking in the reflected glory of a long-awaited victory. I think when you investigate the psychology of it, the answer was something much more simple.

 

Until I saw that trophy with my own eyes, it wasn't real.

I'm not sure words can do justice to the moment. I know what the Market Street is supposed to look like when you pop out of the Civic Center BART station, and I've been caught in the midst of a human throng before. But this? It was just a mass of happy people who picked today to get along.

On the BART I was visiting with some guys from Modesto who made the trip and a gentleman from Richmond also making the pilgramage. I'd spoke to a man who was bringing his 11-year-old to witness history (11? I had to wait 40 years for this and he sees it at age 11? Spoiled little brat!).

I'd never met any of them before and likely won't again, but on this day we were long lost buddies united in our love for the Giants and sharing the sheer amazement that the "torture" had come to a glorious end. Brothers in arms.

I figured "the moment" for me would come upon seeing the trophy, but my biggest reaction was brought about by stepping into Civic Center Plaza and seeing City Hall decked out in banners celebrating the World Series Champions. I'd seen banners like these before, but never in Giants colors. I paused and caught my breath, and it finally hit me.

The Giants are the champs. The event I'd awaited for 40 years had come, seemingly out of the blue. Screw you, George Bush. THIS is what I call "Mission Accomplished."

Channel 2 estimated one million fans in attendance. It seemed there were that many jammed into my BART car -- half of them teenage girls with signs indicating they wanted to "Get Cozy with Posey".  At the plaza there were easily 100,000. They went back beyond Larkin Street. They were in the trees, on top of buildings, climbing the statues (despite fencing intended to deter such an occurance), climbing street poles -- you name it. Two Jumbotrons were erected so those in the plaza could watch the parade drawing ever closer. And when the players arrived, the excitement was palpable.

By now anyone interested has seen video of the speeches -- and Aubrey Huff's pseudo strip (how sick is it that the biggest cheers were reserved for two inanimate objects: the trophy and the rally thong?). You can find clips everywhere (including below) so I won't waste time with a re-cap. I will say that the trip was worth it, the fitting culmination to a grand a glorious quest.

Now the real question: Can they do it again?

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"Next Year" Has Finally Arrived

Statement of fact: The best collection of players did not win the 2010 World Series. The best TEAM did.

Led by a stringy-haired hippy hurler and an aging vet who found one final drop in the fountain of youth, the San Francisco Giants did the unthinkable. Fifty-six years of frustration ended with an absolute destruction of the Texas Rangers, and the Giants laid claim the ultimate prize.


The San Francisco Giants are (pause for dramatic effect) the WORLD CHAMPIONS OF BASEBALL!

I've waited 40 long years to say that.

I'll leave the analysis to others. We all saw what happened. Tim Lincecum simply was not going to lose that game. Aubrey Huff was going to do whatever it took, personal glory be damned. And, if Andres Torres can be believed,  Edgar Renteria literally called his shot. We'll relive it to the nth degree over the next few days (weeks, months, years, millenia). But this blog is personal. This is the blow-by-blow account of what happened at my house.

Generally I'm a nervous wreck watching the Giants play, but on this night I was having way too much fun watching The Freak at the top of his game. It's amazing what you can feel through a high-def television. Every pitch exuded 100 percent badassedness. The message was clear: "Get me some runs and I'll take it home." Timmy was a joy to watch.

Then Cliff Lee, Mr. Unbeatable until the Giants got ahold of him, faltered. Cody Ross got a two-strike hit. Juan Uribe got a two-strike hit. Lee doesn't give those up very often, so you knew something was afoot. When Huff laid down the first sacrifice bunt of his career (and it was magnificent), I started to get that "something has gotta happen here" vibe. The Giants' power leader throughout the season had given himself up for the good of the team.

He knew what all of us felt -- one run might well be enough.

Huff's bunt set up his longtime buddy to be the hero. Pat Burrell, God bless him, had the series from Hell. It would have been a great story had he come through, but Lee fanned him to leave the Giants still needing that elusive two-out hit. Except two-out RBIs were what this postseason has been all about. Lee fell behind Renteria, and his cutter found way too much plate.

When the ball was struck I thought, "Damn, fly ball." Then Murphy turned his back and I started rooting foor the ball to  get down. I was thinking maybe double and two runs. When it disappeared over the wall, I was dumbfounded.

My hands shot into the air. "Oh, (bleep)" I gasped, prompting a stern glare from my wife and an "are you nuts?" look from my 19-month old twin boys.

For me, the enduring image of this series will be the look on Burrell's face and the hug with which he greeted Renteria upon his return to the bench. The baseball term is "you picked me up" but that doesn't do the moment justice. Everyone watching knew what that look meant.

That's when it hit me. The Giants were nine outs away from winning it all.

My iPhone started to buzz. One friend wanted me to wake up my boys so they could witness the finale, like my shouting hadn't already made sleep impossible for the entire neighborhood. Friends and family started chiming in. They knew how I felt about the Giants, how long I had waited for the moment that finally seemed to be at hand, and what this meant.

And still, there were nine outs to go.

Timmy made me nervous when he gave up the jack to Cruz. I'm sure he was roped on adrenaline, but he quickly got back under control.  Then Fox put up that stinking killjoy of a graphic. The last time a team had overcome a three-run deficit in a World Series elimination game, it had happened to the Giants. Effing Game Six.

I was at that hideous game in 2002. It killed me. The best man at my wedding (an Angels fan who sat with my wife-to-be and I through that awful night -- Game Six, not the wedding ) even acknowledged it in his wedding toast, adding "may you finally get your last six outs."

At that moment, he sent me a text: "May u get the last 6 outs."

Funny how the mind works. The big out for me was the first out of the eighth.  They'd passed the six-out threshhold. With two gone I started going through the possibilities. Get Young out, I thought, and Hamilton leads off the ninth. He can hit one to Fort Worth and it just won't matter. Or if Young gets on, do you pull Lincecum in favor of Javier Lopez? Fortunately Timmy Franchise took care of business, and Young. Would Timmy take the hill for the ninth?

I wanted Brian Wilson. I know Timmy was dealing, but they pay Wilson millions for a reason. They needed three outs. Call on The Beard, The Machine, the US Marine Corps, whatever. A complete game would have been a nice story, but Lincecum had done his job. In a campaign where "Fear the Beard" had become a rallying cry, this was how it had to be. But was I confident?

I was literally shaking as Brian Wilson took the hill.

Why is it that, in a season of torture, the one guy who decided not to torture us at the end was this nut case? After dancing in a mine field all season, his outings in Game Four and Game Five were the cleanest he'd thrown all year. Hamilton? Caught looking. Guerrero? Routine ground out. Then Cruz was facing a 3-2 cutter.

From me, there was no shouting and no screaming. I'll admit to a few tears. Honestly, I had bigger reactions to winning the division and the NLCS. This was different. Magically different. The family gathered. I hugged kissed my boys. I know they won't remember it, but I wanted them to share the moment. Then I tried to let it sink in.

The Giants are the champs.

After the presentations were done, after the talking heads took over the airwaves, and long after everyone else in our humble abode had retired for the evening, I spent about two hours wandering the house. I didn't know how to feel.

Giants seasons always end in heartbreak. Always. I thought about the earthquake. I thought about Game Six. I thought about JT Snow, Solmon Torres and all of the other near misses. I even flashed on Bobby Richardson, an episode that took place a year before I was born and that I only know from grainy video. The demons of the past -- all finally exorcised.

There was no Barry Bonds and no Jeff Kent, no Will Clark or Matt Williams. The player carrying the team's biggest salary wasn't on the post-season roster. The next guy on the money chart ended up a bench player.  Nobody wanted Aubrey Huff. Pat Burrell got cut midseason. Cody Ross was waived at the deadline. Andres Torres has had more professional addresses that Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show. Kelly Leak makes this team. They were the Bad News Bears come to life.

I never saw it coming. And for some reason, that made it all the more sweet.

Funny how a team that tortured fans all season put down than moniker for the finale. They didn't just beat the Rangers, they destroyed them. The offensive juggernaut that led all of baseball in hitting batted .190 against the Giants. Toss out that weird Game One and the Rangers scored five runs. The Giants tallied 29 runs in five games, the Rangers had 29 hits. Cliff Lee was perfect in the postseason until the Giants got him...twice. This wasn't close.

Torture never felt so good.

The Rangers arguably had the best personnel. They got beat by a unit. Wait 'til next year? Not any more.

The rally monkey is dead. Long Live "The Beard."



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Lord, I Apologize

Heavenly Father,

It always seemed rather silly to me to try to involve you in a sporting contest, but after 40 years wandering in the proverbial desert I'm looking to hedge my bet. So, if there's any way you can throw a blessing or two toward Tim Lincecum and the Giants tonight, I promise to be a very good boy.

Moses also wandered for 40 years, and he died within sight of the Promised Land. I got a glimpse of it in 2002. This time please let me enter into this glorious kingdom. I know you have to love baseball, since your son looks just like Johnny Damon.

I promise I'll make it worth your while.

I swear that if you but grant this one request, I'll repent for every impure thought I ever had while watching Angelina Jolie movies. I'll also apologize for that "incident" after the pep rally with the cheerleader in high school. You remember the one -- she was calling your name. I'll also admit I watch Carrie Underwood and Britney Spears videos with the sound off. It'll never happen again.

I know I've wished ill on others. I promise to lay off Jonathan Sanchez - at least until such time as he pulls his head out. Brian Sabean and Bruce Bochy will also get a pass. What's that? Tommy Lasorda, too? We may have to negotiate that point later.

The Scott Spezio voodoo doll? Gone. I'll cancell the hits I contracted on Steve Finley and Jose Oquendo.

I'll even retire the "Larry Krueger Was Right" T-shirt if that'll make a difference.

I have two sons. I won't go all Abraham here, but I can rename one. McCovey keeps his name, but for the other you can pull any name from the Giants roster. I don't need it to come to me in a pillar of fire or descend from a mountaintop on a stone tablet -- an e-mail will do just fine.

No more parties with Charlie Sheen, Amy Winehouse, or that annoying Asian guy from "The Hangover."

And if you want more, I'll contribute to a nice sanctury for rally monkeys, prerferably someplace VERY far away. The little chumps, uh, chimps had October off anyway.

Please grant me this one request, before I suffer the ultimate indignity. I want to be saved. Don't condemn me to eternal pain and suffering. That would make me a Cubs fan, and that IS unforgivable.

Amen.




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Youth is Served as Giants Near End of Quest

Wow. Just........wow!

Funny how the mind works. Midway through Game Four I thought of a high school baseball tournament in Las Vegas several years ago. The team I was chaperoning was very deep in pitching. Playing a team from the LA area well into the tourney, our side tossed a kid out there who normally played shortstop but, truthfully, was also an accomplished hurler.
Five inings into a masterpiece, the opposing coach was marveling, "This is your number four?"

After being blanked 4-0, the Rangers have to be asking the same of Madison Bumgarner, who did what no 21-year-old fourth starter should be able to do. With ice water in his veins and lightning in his left arm, the Giants rookie (with a little help from his friends), has this unlikely bunch of castoffs just one win away from baseball immortality. After 56 years, the Promised Land is in sight. San Francisco is one victory away from hoisting the trophy for the first time.

I'm trying very hard not to get too excited. We've been here before. We've seen the Giants six outs away from a title only to have the rug ripped from beneath their feet. But this team is different. No stars, no flash, just business. This isn't the Bonds-Kent Giants that came so perilously close eight years ago. This, dear friends, is a team. They truly are geater than the sum of their parts.

I wonder what the thought process could be in the Rangers' locker room. You don't look at the Giants' line-up and say "Don't let this guy beat us." You can't pitch around the big bat because they don't have one. It's not the way one would set out to built a team, but it's hard to argue with the dynamic. Because it doesn't make sense to target one guy for special attention, the end result is each of them is gonna get a chance to beat you. It's nine-cylinder Russian routlette, and the Giants keep firing at the opportune moment.

Look at the list of unlikely heroes from Game Four: Edgar Renteria with three hits, Freddy Sanchez with superb defense, Aubrey Huff with a big blast. And, Madison Bumgarner...Holy Cow.

Bumgarner's outing will go down in Giants lore. He threw 130 miles an hour. He turned bats into sawdust. He sold hot dogs during the breaks. He fanned Vladamir Guererro on a pick-off throw. Steve Nebraska was seen worshiping at his feet. It was that kind of night, one that'll undoubtedly get better with each re-telling. But the reality, well, actually, he was that good.

Eight innings, three singles, no runs, and two ABs in which he made Guererro wish he'd signed that deal with the Giants back in '03. At least then he wouldn't have had to face MadBum and look like a fool on national TV. Jeez, Bad Vlad was anything but, looking like he was swinging underwater.

Before I go any further, it should be noted that home plate umpire Bill Miller sucked. I mean, really sucked. The strike zone was the size of  Karl Rove's conscience, and it shifted more than Meg Whitman's position on immigration. For four inings neither pitcher nor batter had any clue what was or wasn't a strike. But as the game progressed, you could see Bumgarner and Buster Posey figure it out. They took what was being given, worked both sides of the plate, and never let the Rangers get untracked. Texas, on the other hand, had a severe case of Gumby shoulders. Lots of belly-aching about calls instead of making adjustments. One team was there to gripe, one was there to play.

I hope Jonathan Sanchez was taking notes. Everything Sanchez did wrong in Game Three, Madbum did right. After a four-pitch walk to open the game had me reaching for the Alka Seltzer, the baby-faced Carolinian just shrugged and went to work. Three hours later, the Giants were on the doorstep of history.

Who'd have thunk it. The Rangers weathered CC Sabathia. They outguned David Price. They took down Andy Pettite. They even roughed up Tim Lincecum to a degree. But the gangly lefty tied Texas up in knots. The Rangers managed to get one, no joke, ONE runner as far as second base -- and that happened 6 2./3 innings into the contest. It wasn't that Bumgarner took the Rangers out of the game, it was that he never let them get into it.

It should frighten opposing teams to know that the Giants' battery from last night has trouble getting into an R-rated movie. Their combined ages wouldn't make them old enough to remember JFK. Ironic, since either could run for President right now and carry the Bay Area vote.

Bumgarner had help early. Freddy Sanchez bailed him out in the first by turning Josh Hamilton's hot shot into an inning-ending double play, then snow-coned Jeff Francoeur's line drive to end the second. With the Giants fielding a defense-first unit, Bumgarner just pounded the edges of the strike zone and let his teammates do the rest.

I don't know what possessed Bruce Bochy to go with the line-up he did. At first glance, I thought it was a drastic overreaction to Game Three. I thought it relied too much on Huff and Posey to get the job done, and neither had been setting the world on fire. So, what happened?

Uh, the defense made plays. Cody Ross flashed some serious leather in left, replacing Pat Burrell. Posey made the Rangers think about wasting the few baseruners they got by gunning down Hamilton on a steal attempt. And those struggling bats in the middle of the line-up? Huff and Posey both went yard.

It's one of those bizarre occurances that you don't try to explain. If the head cheerleader shows up on your doorstep with lingerie and a six-pack, you just enjoy the moment. The Giants are making all the right moves at the right time. If Bochy rambled off five random numbers right now, he'd nail the SuperLotto winners.

How to you describe this team? I think the best description is that they are all Andres Torres. They are grinders. They don't go out and destroy anybody: they wear them down. They're the guy who picks himself after crashing into a wall 999 times, absolutely convinced that the next collision will be the one to knock it down.

Ask Texas hurler Tommy Hunter about that "grinding" thing. Hunter didn't pitch badly yet only lasted four frames -- largely because of pitch count. His 60th pitch came in the third inning. In four combined ABs, Torres and F Sanchez alone worked him for 31 pitches. Wanna think that didn't have something to do with it when Hunter, immediately after a long Sanchez AB, tossed a meatball to Huff?

So it all comes down to this. The Giants have their ace on the hill, and if a team that hasn't dropped back-to-back games in the postseason can capture one of its next three, the spell will be broken. There will be rainbows and unicorns for everyone, dogs and cats will make peace, and Lindsay Lohan will get sober. I may even write something nice about Brian Sabean (and I'll have to change the sub-head on this blog, dammit).

While I can't make plans for a celebration just yet, that would be tempting the baseball gods and we all know how fickle they are, I have begun to ponder what I would do if the Giants actually won. There are a number of personal celebratory activites that come to mind, but one keeps boiling to the top.

I think I'll go strangle a rally monkey.

Sanchez Spits the Bit (again); Giants Fall

That foul stench arising from Arlington? It's Jonathan Sanchez.

The Giants' 4-2 loss in Game Three of the World Series highlighted the problem. There is no doubt that Sanchez is part of the reason the Giants are where they are. It's equally clear that, should they fail to capitalize, it's going to be on his head.

The mental midget returned. For the second time in three post-season starts, Sanchez was low-grade dog food. And while this wasn't the implosion he suffered against Philly, the result was more horiffic. With a chance to go up 3-0, the Giants got nothing going. They rerturned to their habit of making average pitcher look indestructable while Sanchez again proved that he's a lock to disappoint in a pressure situation.

I've lobbied for this for two years. If the Giants get an offer, trade the piece of excrement. He's not trustworthy. What good does it do you to get all dressed up for the prom if your date doesn't show? That's Sanchez.

At one point the Fox cameras had a close-up of the Giants' enigmatic lefty, and I saw "the look." I told those watching the game with me that he was screwed. I'd seen that look before, the "I don't want to be here" gaze. I heard the whole Crash Davis / Nuke Laloosh speech in my head as the young hurler heard from the crafty vet about his million dollar arm and five cent head. Offer five cents for Sanchez and you should expect change back.

And here's a thought that should scare the crap out of you. If it's needed, Sanchez is slated to pitch Game Seven.

This isn't a team built to come from behind, and when your starter is serving up gopher balls he makes it pretty tough on the rest of the squad. And what I found just as disgusting as the long ball to the nine hitter was the four pitch walk that preceded it.  You can't play giveaway at this level. Sanchez does it far too often.

If course, there were other Giants who contributed to the stench. Burrell fanned four times, and has whiffed on eight of nine ABs in the series. Sandoval fianlly got some work, and managed to account for four outs in just three ABs.

The Giants had one shot at the game. After homers from Ross and Torres got the G-men on the board, they managed to get the tying run to the plate with two down in the eighth. Posey, the rookie phenom, was at the dish. Grounder to second, threat over. The Giants barely managed a foul tip in the ninth.

So now it falls to Madison Bumgarner to stem the tide, to make sure this season that held such promise just a few hours ago doesn't take an ugly turn. Game Four is crucial. It's the difference between a virtual lock and a best of three series with Texas getting the tip-off at home.

Of the 51 teams that have taken a 2-0 lead in the series, only 11 have lost it. For the Giants to collapse now?

Torture doesn't come close to covering it.



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Panda Captures DH Job. Mistake?

One of the quirks of World Series play is the off-again, on-again relationship with the designated hitter. Being a postseason DH is kinda like being engaged to J-Lo: first you are, then you aren't then you are again.

Now personally, I don't like the DH. Baseball is nine guys. Ten is slowpitch softball. Unless they plan to put a keg behind second base, I ain't buying. But since Bud the Dud won't kick this loser to the curb, we're stuck with it during the stay in Arlington.

So for the offensively-challenged Giants (and that seems stupid to say after the last two games), that does means two things -- no potato hitting in the nine spot for our hurlers to toy with but an extra stick in the line-up on the attack side of the ledger.

The question: who should it be?

The baseball pundocrity is quoting sources saying Pablo Sandoval is going to be the guy. And while it may be the case that DHing is the best way to get his bat into the line-up for multiple swings, is this the right call?

I don't think so.

Bruce Bochy has pushed all the right buttons so far, but I think he's missing the boat here. My choice for DH is Pat Burrell.

Here's a rule regarding the DH that doesn't come up much in the AL (that league betwenn Triple A and the Majors). Hit for the DH, you lose him. That limits some of Bochy's manuverabilty. Make a move and the pitcher has to hit. End of advantage.

The glaring flaw in the Giants line-up is the need to pull Burrell for late defense. Wouldn't you rather get him the extra swings? I say keep the order intact and stick Aaron Rowand in the nine spot. Let Torres move to left and let Pat the Bat stay in the game. Rowand is still a better option that a pitcher, and with three legitimate center fielders to patrol the green, just about any ball hit in the air will have to get out or be caught.

Despite the Giants' offensive explosion, this is still a team that has to think first about pitching and defense. The Giants can't forget who they are.

So what about Panda? Considering his struggles this year, you gotta believe Bochy is hoping to catch the proverbial lightning in a bottle. If that's the case, do you want to lock him into the line-up or wouldn't you rather have that switch-hitting bat at your diposal at a time of your choosing?

There's no right or wrong, only opinion. But if Sandoval goes 0-for-4 and a ball to left gets down that a more fleet-footed outfielder would have gloved, I'll be back to say "I told you so."

Is This Heaven?

"There comes a time when all the cosmic tumblers have clicked into place and the universe opens itself up for a few seconds to show you what's possible." -- Ray Kinsella (Field of Dreams.)


Ian Kinsler, meet your fate.

All through the post season I've been waiting for that one moment that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck, something that would cause me to finally believe that this personal four-decade Bataan Death March of fandom was about to come to a glorious end. I wanted a sign from above, an indicator that the powers that be were finally, mercifully on our side.

In Game Two, I got it. I don't have much hair (at least not where I want it), but what I possess was at full attention.

In a scoreless game, Kinsler hit a rocket to lead of the Rangers fifth.. The center field wall at AT&T Park is 399 feet from home plate, and Kinsler's ball traveled EXACTLY 399 feet. Now I'm no geometry whiz but the force and trajectory required to get a baseball from Point A to Point B would seem to dictate that a said ball dropped directly on top of the fence should result in a home run. Replicate the feat 1,000 times and the ball goes out on 999 of them.

Kinsler's didn't. It caught the padding and backspun into play, Andres Torres played it off the wall, and Kinsler was limited to a lead-off double and he died right there -- the Rangers' chance to grab a lead spoiled. The rest is history. The Giants broke through in the bottom of the frame. Matt Cain threw a masterpiece. The Giants smashed open a tight game late for a 9-0 win over Texas. San Francisco has a two-games-to-none lead in the 106th World Series.

Just saying it produces that same hair-raising effect.

The San Francisco Chronicle asked the question this morning: "Reasonable people in an enlightened era do not believe in fate and destiny, do they?"

I'm not reasonable. I'm a Giants fan, and I'm hungry! There is no rational explanation for the way the first two games have played out, so I'm comfortable believing in lucky socks and pixie dust.

If someone had told you one of these teams would go off for 20 runs over the first two contests you'd have smiled and said that, yes, Texas has one heck of an offense. If you'd been told the offensive juggernaunt would be the Giants, you'd have summoned the guys in white coats and had that same someone submitted for immediate drug testing -- not that I speak from experience or anything.

We expected to get good pitching, even though the Lee-Lincecum duel never materialized. But the truth of the matter is that the Giants' best postseason pitcher hasn't been The Freak. October has been the coming out party for Matt Cain.

It's long been discussed. Cain, the longest-tenured Giant despite his youth, was projected as an ace. It never happened, and although he's been a solid starter throughout his brief career his star has been eclipsed by newer arrivals like Lincecum and Buster Posey.

Until now.

Matt Cain has arrived, and did he ever pick the right time to show up.

The numbers aren't staggering by themselves: two strikeouts in 7 2/3 innings. But make no mistake about it, Matt Cain dominated the Rangers. Oh, they had some threats, but when Cain got into trouble, he was at his best.

Pitching to contact, he didn't overpower the game so much as he got it to cooperate. The Rangers cash in oportunities. That's their game. Cain just shrugged and kept pounding the stirke zone, leaving the Rangers wanting like a homeless guy waving a tin cup outside the Embarcadero BART station.

Let's put it into context. Lincecum got press for his 14 strikeout performance, Jonathan Sanchez for his Jekyl & Hyde act, Madison Bumgarner for his age (or lack thereof). All Cain has done is go the entire postseason without surrendering an earned run. Nothing. Cliff Lee was supposed to be unbtouchble? Note to Faux Sports, ESPN and MLB Network: you picked the wrong guy for that graphic.

And to make the story even more appealing, to what did he credit his success? According to Cain, his catcher has "magic fingers." Seriously. It's that close to Cole Trickle being told he's driving on special tires. How can you not love this guy? Cain is the personification of this season of discovery, of rebirth, of exceeded expectations. Thee's no presentese. Al Davis would love this. Just win, Baby!

Which brings me to Edgar Renteria.

I'm getting sick of apologizing. I swear I'm only going to do it for two more wins. But darn it, Edgar, I'm sorry. You stunk all year. You spent more time gathering dust on the shelf than a Members Only jacket. And now, with your career likely down to its final days, it's you who really came though. Two hits: the tiebreaking home run in the fifth and a two-run single in the eighth that effectively ended the competitive phase of the ball game. Okay, you did drop a throw from Posey that cost the team an out, but given the end result we'll let that slide (don't ever do it again).

That's the way it's been: a different hero every night. Game One belonged to Freddy Sanchez and Juan Uribe, Game Two to Cain and Renteria. Javier Lopez is the secret weapon that everyone suddenly knows about. And in case you hadn't noticed (and ESPN clearly hasn't), Cody Ross and Aubrey Huff are also getting it done. Even Aaron Rowand contributed.

Think about this. If you counted Rowand's pinch hitting appearance in the ninth spot, the bottom third of the order went 4 for 8 eight in Game Two, driving in seven of the nine runs. What is the world coming to? I'm sure the Rangers had all sorts of designs on how to control Posey and Burrell. Nobody, especially the Rangers, expected Uribe, Renteria and Rowand to be Murderers' Row.

Ross was involved in a play that won't show up in the box score, but I gotta comment on it. Josh Hamilton's sinking liner with Young on first could have been a game changer. I've been there, and the "I've got it, no I don't" feeling is sickening. Look at the video of Ross's dive. He knew he couldn't catch the ball. That hands-down gesture was intended to smother it. Ross was going to take that hop in the teeth if he had to, but that ball was not skipping past him. If it does, there's a run home and a man on third. Instead the runners moved a scant 90 feet, and Cain diffused the rally.

That was a difference maker, one of many the Giants have pulled off. Baseball is a game of little things. I've been told size doesn't matter (a story for another time)  but sometimes the little things play big.

This shouldn't be happening. A team that couldn't hit all year just set a record for runs scored in the first two games of a World Series while an offensive powerhouse is struggling. The Rangers rolled out an untouchable ace - who promptly got bombed. A Texas bullpen that had been more than capable couldn't find the plate with a laser sight. The Rangers running game is stuck in neutral.  On the other side we see guys who haven't contributed a lick all season coming up big. Players pulled from the scrap heap are suddenly heroes.

These are not the Barry Bonds Giants anymore. No stars, no drama, no recliners in the clubhouse. Just 25 guys (and maybe "The Machine") pulling on the same end of the rope, and they're well on their way hanging Texas with it.

The AT&T Park sound system blared out Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" after the game. I can't be the only one who got the chills when the fans began singling along and drowned out the PA on the lyric "Ooh, we're halfway there."

But it is only halfway. I've been punched in the emotional chops too many times to start planning the parade. If the evil Jonathan Sanchez shows up on Saturday, we've got ourselves a fight. But if he's on his game, well, this could be a very memorable weekend.

"Can I ask you something? Is this heaven?"
"It's Iowa."
"I could have sworn it was heaven."
"Is there a heaven?"
"Oh, yeah. It's the place where dreams come true."


"Maybe this is heaven."






.

The Castoffs Strike First

If anyone was gonna take out Cliff Lee, it wasn't going to be these guys.


You know, you can predict just about anything. People make big bucks telling you who is going to win elections,which stocks will go up, and just how bad the weather is going to spoil the family picnic. But nobody can tell you with an certainty what will happen in a baseball game.

Cliff Lee is unbeatable in the postseason? He didn't get out of the fifth inning. The Giants don't have the offense to contend with Texas? An 11-run Game One begs to differ. And now the Giants have a leg up in the 2010 World Series.

It wasn't pretty, not close to it. A Lee-Lincecum pitching duel it wasn't. The teams combined to use 12 pitchers, they committeed six errors, and from an artisitc standpoint set baseball back about a century. And jeez was it fun to watch as the Rangers lirterally got knocked off their, uh, Cliff. Yeah, I couldn't resist.

Now admit it, the way that game started off you were proably having the same thoughts I did. A single, a walk and a full-blown brain fart had the Rangers up 1-zip before the first Cha Cha Bowl had been sold. Then Freddy Sanchez wasted the first of his four hits with a baserunning blunder the likes of which we had not seen since Ruben Rivera. When The Freak got tabbed for another run in the second, I started mentally composing one of those "well, it was a good season" kind of posts.

Then the Giants started squaring up Lee. These weren't dunkers. Lee got slapped around like Farrah Fawcett in the first half hour of "The Burning Bed." For a night Sanchez decided he was Honus Wagner, Aubrey Huff found some extra juice in the rally thong, and Juan Uribe.....

Juan, I apologize.

I didn't want this guy. I thought he was a wasted salary last year and bringing him back was a mistake. I bashed him all year as he fell into periodic funks. And as I lamented the fact that the Giants didn't have a guy who stepped up when it mattered, this is the guy who got it done.

A three-run blast was only part of it. The third-to-first twin killing that eneded the first inning stopped the bleeding. A great diving stop and throw added to the highlight reel. He had the game-winner in two of the four wins over Philly. Juan came to play.

While I'm doling out apologies, Edgar Renteria still shouldn't be allowed near the plate in a crucial situation but his stop up the middle was the moment I thought "we're gonna be okay." Now there were still plenty of defensive miscues, charged and uncharged, but you just had the feeling that the Giants were going to find their way out of the woods.

So I find myself struggling. I've become very accustomed to looking for the hidden land mines in paradise. Now I'm starting to think not "how are they gonna blow this?" but "who is going to make the play?" It's a different hero every night, and maybe that's appropriate from a bunch of guys nobody wanted.

Put this in your pipe and smoke it. There are, at the most, six games left in the campaign. The Giants play .500 ball and they're scrounging up floats for a parade down Market Street.

Not bad for a bunch of muts.

Reverse Kharma

From reader drbgiantsfan:

Maybe this blog has been reverse karma for the Giants this year? If so, keep up the great work! What you are missing about the talent level on this team (don't worry, almost everybody misses it) is the pitching. The '89 and '02 teams had much better hitting, but neither team had anything at all resembling the pitching this team has. Anything can happen in a 7 game series, but I like this team's chances because of the pitching. Pitching, pitching and more pitching!

Yeah, I'm a big fan of kharma, and no doubt I've been the biggest killjoy all year. Over 40 years of fandom I've had my heart broken repeatedly by this team, so it has become very hard to trust them. Whatever the roster permutation, the result has been the same: a season that ends in disappointment -- sometimes gut-wrenchingly so. Say "Game Six" in my presence at your own peril.

So, is this blog some kind of cosmic mirror that turned around the fates? The more I bash this group, the better they play?

If that's the case, I'm gonna really screw this up because I'm starting to believe.

The pundits are out there saying the Giants don't have enough offense to deal with the big bad scary Rangers. TYexas does too many things too well. They hit, they pitch, they run. The Giants don't have a chance.

Yeah, well, they didn't stand a chance against Atlanta either. Philly was supposed to be planning a parade right now. But a funny thing happened on the way to oblivion. The Giants never bought into it.

Let's be realistic. Is this the best team in baseball? From a talent standpoint, no way. They do two things well. One is pitch. The other is refuse to die.  The 2010 Giants are the Jason Vorhees of baseball.

I finally started to think this might be the year on Saturday, a day on which I ran the gamut of emotions. I was beyond ticked as Jonathan Sanchez melted down, both physically and mentally. "Here we go again," was my thought process. Come on, who didn't start to think about Solomon Torres in 1993, Felix Rodriguez in 2000 or Livan Hernandez in 2002? As the Phillies took a 2-0 lead didn't you start looking over your shoulder for Jose Oquendo, Neifi Perez or Scott Spezio?

I was spooked by the ghosts of failures past. The Giants? They whipped out a proton pack and summoned Jereny Affeldt (playing the role of Peter Venkman) to bust said ghosts. They weren't buying. Those teams that failed so spectacularly? Different Giants.

As formidable as the Braves and Phillies were, the Rangers are even scarier. They deserve to be where they are. This is a unit that took out the team with baseball's best record then dethroned defending world champs -- and did so with style. This just in, the Rangers are really good.

The Giants? They don't hit as well as Texas. They don't run as well as Texas (they don't run as well as the arthiritic ward at the old folks home). If you believe the talking heads, the Rangers also eat better food and their women are hotter.

To hear the so-called experts tell it, tonight's Game One is all about Cliff Lee. Okay, he's good. He's one of the best. But that Lincecum guy the Giants are throwing? Two Cy Young's and three straight strikeout titles say he's no slouch.

No, the Giants aren't an offensive jugggernaut. In the off-season they do need to find a way to get better with the sticks, but that doesn't mean Mr. Lee is gonna have a cake walk.

I know the numbers. ESPN has drilled them into my brain. He's 7-0 with a 1.26 ERA in eight career postseason starts. This postseason: 34 strikeouts, one walk. He's won all three of his career starts against the Giants. They've managed just three runs total in those outings.

So what? These are different Giants. Check out the credentials.

They beat Roy Oswalt on Opening Day. They took down Mat Latos in the fnale with the NL West on the line. In April they beat Adam Wainwright. Two days later they beat Roy Halladay, and Halladay was 5-0 at the time. That was a nice warm-up for Game One of the NLCS when Halladay was coming off a no-hitter but fell to The Freak and G-men (appearing nightly with Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen). Ubaldo Jimenez was 14-1 with a 1.83 ERA when the Giants thunmped him just before the All-Star break.

Rmember Oswalt? The Giants beat him three times during the season, and they got him twice in the playoffs. Cole Hammels made the list -- in fact the Giants beat each of the Philly's Big Three in the regular season and the postseason. They beat Derek Lowe twice during the NLDS.

It's not the kind of thing you write home about. Every game is a whole different Oprah, and nothing is ever easy. But, in case you missed it, their next win will be the 100th of the year. Something went right, so why can't that same thing go right four more times?

I started the season predicting gloom and doom. As it turned out, the team that took the field down the stretch was a very different unit. Buster Posey, Pat Burrell and Cody Ross came aboard. Javier Lopez filled out the pen. The current team is still flawed, still maddening at times, but it's a team that seems to have that unidentifiable factor that makes them dangerous.

So for once, I'll let reason go. I'll surrender to the moment, let my guard down and allow myself to hope.

I'll say it. They could win this thing.



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The Neighborhood is Safe

In 2002, as David Bell skidded home to send San Francisco to the World Series, I heard a resounding "boom." What I initially thought was a fellow Giants fan setting off an impromptu celebration was, in fact, a home on the cul de sac behind my residence bursting into flame -- the victim of a bad fumigation effort.

On this night, no fireworks. The neighborhood survived. My wits, not so much.

Giants fans can describe a certain feeling in two words: "Game Six." It's a sense of impending doom, the knoweldge that the executioner has receieved his orders and we're hoping against hope for a call from the governor that we know will never come.

This time the phone rang. The Giants are World Series bound, winning a (what else?) torturous Game Six on enemy turf to set up a date with the Rangers and to send the Phillies off to make chalupa commericals with Girardi and Rivera.

It wasn't easy. It's never easy. A very flawed team displayed all of its weaknesses in Game Six. Jonathan Sanchez pulled another disappearing act. The Giants wasted baserunners - putting the leadoff man on in four of the first five innings but managing just one earned run. The heart of the order was non-existent. They ran themselves out of an inning. The bullpen tossed seven scoreless but had some high drama along the way, and Brian Wilson once again did his best to keep the final frame exciting.

The one thing they did right was refuse to quit.

No question this Giants team isn't as talented as the squad that came wihtin six outs of winning it all in 2002. I think the 1989 team had much more talent with Thompson, Clark, Mitchell and Williams. There are times the 2010 unit looked like it could fall short against a Junior Giants squad from Modesto.

They needed a hero. Tonight they got a couple.

Much will surely be said and written about Juan Uribe's opposite field shot, a ball that was but a hard breath from the fat guy in Row A away from staying in the park. Combine that shot with the Game Four winner and he's cemented cult hero status right next to Brian Johnson. But.....

My hero on this night is Jeremy Affeldt. I honestly believe he saved the Giants' season.

Sanchez was putrid, and his confrontation with Chase Utley told me all I needed to know. There was no call for his outburst. He simply lost his compusure. In crunch time, he folded. A great deal of what happens on the mound actually takes place between a guy's ears. Whatever that "it" factor is, he doesn't posess it.

Affledt had it last year, lost it, and found it just in time. Wading into Sanchez's mess, Affeldt restored order. Then Bochy, quite logically, kept his under-performing pen away from the game. Only Lopez was trusted, with Bochy instead turning to Bumgarner and Lincecum to get the game to his closer.

I know Wilson is weird. A mean, I see the guy on TV and I'm not certain if he's planning to pitch or to put a parrot on his shoulder and go out searching for buried treasure. But he did find one piece of pure gold, a backdoor cutter to Ryan Howard that no doubt sent people into histerics from the Haight to the Ferry Building.

The closest thing this team has to a star may be a rookie backstop and a 165-pound  pitcher who looks like a 12-year-old. Top to bottom, they don't do anything extremely well. If this were a prize fight, they'd be the guy throwing jabs and dashing from corner to corner while the big bad Phillies came in throwing haymakers.

What this team of unprovens, misfits, rejects and rodeo clowns reminded the baseball world is that you can win a fight on points. No gaping wounds were inflicted on the Phils. It was death by 1,000 paper cuts. But method matters not.

All that matters is this.

Mistake-prone Giants Surrender Momentum, Home Turf

About that "Kharama" chick.

In Game Four of the NLCS, she clearly smiled at the Giants and all was right with the world. In Game Five, the witch walked to the center of the diamond and purposefully gave all of us who bleed orange and black The Finger.

Tim Lincecum was masterful, the offense non existent, and the defense woeful. As a result, the Giants blew their one opportunity to clinch the series at home and now head back to Philly up three games to two but very much in a defensive crouch.

Giants fans have come to expect this. Heck, this week's Sports Illustrated has a feature article on the many ways the faithful have been tormented and tortured over the years. I've often lamented on the gut-wrenching way the Giants find ways to foul up. Game Four was case in point. It wasn't a setback, it was a meltdown.

Everything seemed set up for a celebration. An injured Roy Halladay was shaky, the Giants grabbed an early lead, and Tim Lincecum was on his game. Then came the third inning.

First of all, the plate umpire absolutely blew the call. Halladay's bunt attempt with two men on was so clearly foul that Halladay didn't even move from the batter's box. But the call of "fair" was made, and the Giants got jobbed. Still, they had an opportunity to turn it in their favor.

That old adage about looking a gift horse in the mouth? The Giants spit in its face. You don't do that and expect the baseball gods not to take vengenance.

Pablo Sandoval again proved that he's not ready to be a Major Leaguer. He may have had one great season at the plate in 2009, but 2010 has shown him to be ill-prepared. He didn't take care of himself physically, and mentally he's been on a six-month vacation. Last night it bit the Giants firmly on the backside.

One would think the one thing you could take for granted from a third baseman is that he would know where third base is. Yes, Sandoval was charging on the poor bunt. but he also gave up on the play. Raul Ibanez, running from second, didn't. Buster Posey, from his catcher's position, didn't. Posey acknowledged afterward what every player is taught from T-ball upward. Until the umpire makes a call, you play every ball like it's fair. He did. Ibanez did. Halladay didn't, and it presented an opportunity.


Weebles wobble, and sometimes they DO fall down.

Had Sandoval just gone back to the bag like they teach you, oh, I don't know, every day from the time you can pick up a glove, Ibanez is out. Halladay, still standing at the plate, is an easy double play victim. Instead Pablo jabs at the bag with his foot with less grace than Kenny Mayne's infamous appearance on Dancing With the Stars. The weeble did recover in time to get Halladay, but there's a huge difference between a runner at second with two down, and two runners in scoring position.

Think one play can't decide a series? I'll get Don Denkinger's phone number for you.

Both runers can score on anything hit safely to the outfield, even if the ball reaches ceneter field by clanging off the first-baseman's mitt. Aubrey Huff had made four errors all year. The last was in late May. This routine grounder eluded him. What should have been an easy put-out instead gets handballed into center field the Phillies have a lead they never relinquished.

Lincecum did allow three hits (and a hit batsman) in the frame -- the only hits he'd allow until a seventh-inning single. But you simply can't make your pitcher have to get five and six outs in an inning. It'll explode like Krakatoa. Lincecum should actually be credited for limiting the damage...for all the good it did him.

The bullpen was again shaky with Ramon Ramirez giving up an opposite-field blast, Sergio Romo walking one of the two hitters he faced and (ironically) falling on his ass on the one guy he did retire, and Jeremy Affeldt nearly blowing an 0-2 advantage before retiring the one man he battled. Only Javier Lopez was solid.

Romo goes slip-sliding away, just like the Giants' chances to clinch at home.

I have a gripe with the pen. I know they put up great numbers down the stretch, but I also contend that a lot of that had to do with the number of innings they pitched -- or didn't pitch. Starters went deep into games and not much was asked of the relief corps. These same hurlers who were mediocre for much of the season thrived under those conditions. Under the harsh glare of postseason lights they're reverted to their mid-season form, and it's not pretty. It's like hooking up with a Hollywood hottie then jumping back in time and waking up next to Sarah Rue before she discovered Jenny Craig.

Even that performance pales next to the outing by the offense. Things started out well, buit again it was the inability to get a hit when it mattered. For once the table setters did their jobs. Andres Torres and Freddy Snachez were a combined 4-for-7 with a walk. The 3-4-5 of Huff, Posey and Pat Burrell was a dismal 1-for-11. Huff stranded two runners in the fifth with a two-out, full-swinging bunt. He also stranded runners in the third and seventh, and failed to produce with runners at the corners and none out in the first, although the Giants did plate one run.

The Giants also ran themselves out of an inning when Cody Ross tried to take third on a fly ball to right, committing a cardinal sin of basball by making the third out at third base. Dude, you're already in scoring position. What was the friggin' point?

So the Giants find themsleves in an unenviable position. They still hold a 3-2 lead but they effectively burned their ace and now they go back east for a game the Phillies are thrilled to be in and the Giants never wanted to play. Baseball is a game of momentum, and right now the Phillies have it.

And now the Giants fans must once again hear the two most cursed words in the team's recent history: "Game Six." Oh God, not again.

I won't say the Giants are doomed, but I've seen this flic before. The only thing missing is Jose Oquendo.  Dropping three straight to lose the series would be an epic failure and leave a most bitter taste in the mouths of Giants fans who, quite frankly, are sick of watching others sip champagne from a victory cup while we chug vinegar. This wouldn't be a loss, it would be a full on choke job.

Momentum is supposed to be only as good as the next day's starting pitcher. The Giants have Sanchez and Cain. The Phillies have Oswalt, Hamels and the home turf. The Giants have history -- they've never lost when up 3-1. They'd also won five straight Game Fives when holding such a lead -- so much for history.

That gnawing in the back of my mind? That's Kharma, and she's in a bad mood.


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Finally, A Chance to Phinish the Phillies

Kharma is a beautiful thing when it's on your side.

On two separate occasions it appeared fate and poor umpiring (not to mention Santiago Casilla) were conspiring to rob the Giants of a win in this most crucial of contests. Then kharma, the fickle and sometimes brutal muse that she is, looked upon the Orange and Black... and she smiled.

Game Four of the NLCS went into the plus column, and suddenly the G-men find themselves one win from the unthinkable -- a trip to the World Series.

Despite entering it leading the series two games to one, this was a contest the Giants absolutely had to have. A loss would have effectively turned the series into a best of three with Philadelphia holding home turf. Instead, it's the Giants with a chance to close it out at home, and it's Philly on the respirator. The Phils knew it, that's why Roy Oswalt pitched the ninth.

For the entire postseason,  the Giants have survived on pitching and luck. They got little of either in Game Four. This time they had something better.

Welcome back, Buster Posey. With all due respect to Messers Halladay and Oswalt, we have our our R.O.Y., and I like ours a lot better.

To be sure, Posey has been a big part of the team's success. He's largely the reason the Giants are where they are, and his deft handling of the pitching staff can't be ignored. But offensively he'd done nothing to help the team in games one through three. In fact, the middle of the line-up has been a huge black hole. Until this night.

Four hits (two doubles, two RBIs) and one of the biggest clutch at-bats of the year in that edge-of-your-seat ninth inning. Add in a defensive play that still has me scratching my head (catcher's gloves are not meant to snag short hops) and the kid had a heck of a night. And he had help. Aubrey Huff had three hits and scored the winning run. Panda smashed a crucial two-run double. Then a struggling and banged up Juan Uribe contributed a booming sac fly that sent the home faithful into pandemonium.

What made it so special was that this win didn't follow the script. A team that isn't built to come from behind, did exactly that. A team that has to win with pitching faltered on the mound. A team that needs to have the breaks go its way seemed to have the cosmos rallying against it. None of that mattered.

About those pitchers. Although tagged for three runs in 4 2/3 innings, Madison Bumgarner deserved better. Two of the runs scored after he departed as Casilla melted down for the second time in the series. True, MadBum set the table, but it was the pen that put the fork in his night. After the Giants rallied it was yet another bullpen failure, this one by Sergio Romo, which ratcheted up the pucker factor to an even more uncomfortable level.

Which brings me to this point. I hate sliders. Couldn't throw one as a pitcher, couldn't touch one as a hitter, and couldn't teach it worth a rip as a coach. It's a devestating pitch when it works, but it's also the easiest pitch to foul up. In Game Four, without fail, when the Giants gave up a crucial hit it was on a hanging slider. Casilla was overpowering Polanco with heaters, then hung a slider to cough up the lead. Romo served up a fat Frisbee to Werth to surrender yet another lead. It was the slider that deserted Bumgarner in the fifth. Get the wrong tilt or release and it spins up to the plate screaming "hit me" like it was Rihanna on a visit to Chris Brown's house.

You know what else hits hard? Fate. Yep, you knew I was gonna get back to this kharma thing, right?

Twice the Giants got screwed. Pablo Sandoval's much-replayed drive down the line was a fair ball, and I'm convinced Oswalt clipped Uribe with a pitch in the ninth. Those are usually the calls that leave you feeling like you got screwed with your pants on. No way Pablo bounces back with hit, and Uribe is doomed -- right?

Pablo lines a shot to the gap to plate two and give the Giants the lead. Uribe gets a chance to swing a delivers the game winner. Kharma? Gimme a big wet sloppy kiss, you beauty!

Fate even played a role in setting up the game-winner. If Ryan Howard isn't guarding the line, Huff's ground-ball single is a routine out. Posey's hit to advance him came on a cue shot down the line that might be caught in another ballpark, but at AT&T Werth had to guard triples alley. For both: right place, right time.

So, the Giants have one shot to close it out at home, and it's Timmy Franchise on the hill. Is there anyone else you'd want out there?

This is by no means over. The Phillies are two-time defending NL champs for a reason, and they're countering with their own ace in a rematch of Game One hurlers. The Giants need to show some killer instinct and finish them quickly.

Maybe, just maybe, it's fate.


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Hurri-Cain Ross Blows Past Phillies

Up is down. Black is white. Republicans are, well, they're still lost. And the San Francisco Giants are two wins away from a trip the World Series.

Unbelieveable. I wrote earlier that the Giants would go only as far as pitching and luck would take them. Right now they're getting copious amounts of both. Aubrey Huff told Sports Illustrated that he had sense of calm during a critical AB in the NLDS was because he felt "the baseball gods owe me one."

I know the feeling.

Apparently in payment, said gods have offered up a plethora of pitchers and Cody Ross. Aside from some kind of devine intervention, how do you explain this team? Can they hit? Not really. Do they run? Nope. Do they look really good in their uniforms? Uh, anyone caught a glimpse of Pablo Sandoval lately? I don't even want to speculate on shoe-polish beards and rally thongs.

This may end up being one of those times where you just have to admit that something has no logical explanation. The stars align, fate smiles, and you find yourself at that perfect moment at the autumnal equinox when you supposedly can stand an egg on its end. Maybe there really is magic inside.

Matt Cain simply dealt. The pundits all said the same thing: the Phillies had too much offense. San Francisco coudn't hope to compete. But a team doesn't have to get many breaks when the opposition is sporting zeroes.

To be sure, it's not a fun way to win. Every at-bat is the baseball equivalent of teetering on cliff with one foot on a banana peel. A starter can be throwing the game of his life, yet the team is always one Eric Hinske long ball from disaster. But give that same pitcher some breathing room.....

Cain has had precious little of that in recent years. But spotted a 3-0 lead in Game Three, he exhibited the ace-like demeanor Giants fans have long awaited. Two hits over seven shut-out innings. He wasn't especally overpowering, but he was relentless. The Phillies had chances. But when push came to shove and Cain had to make a pitch, he made it. When he found himself in a jam, he escaped. And when he needed to get mean, he got down right nasty.

Cain may have a baby face, but on this day he showed he also has the heart of an assassin.

I'm a big an of the MLB Network, and the talking heads there had pondered how Cain would fare given his lack of career success aainst the Phils. Would be bring his A Game? They weren't the first group to question why Cain had never developed into the full-fledged ace the Giants predicited when he came up in 2005.

Maybe he just needed the right stage. On a day the Giants had to have Cain at his best, he delivered.

As did Cody Ross, who by the time this is over may be in line for a statue at AT&T (he can replace the seal at the Marina Gate. Sorry, Lou).

Postseason history seems to follow one of two paths. Either a dominant team steamrolls the opposition (or buys its crown, stupid Yankees) or you get the "Who are these guys?" squad who jumps up and steals a title like the guy trudging through Nordstrom in a too-long trench coat. The Giants appear much more like thieves than conquerors. But thieves like the '69 Mets or the '05 ChiSox still got their parades, still wear rings, and their fans certainly didn't find those title celebrations any less sweet.

More often that not, the story includes an unlikely hero. For every Reggie Jackson putting his stamp on October there's a Donn Clendenon or Bucky Dent.

Enter Cody Ross.

In all five Giants playoff wins, Ross drove in the first run of the game. The Giants have a team playoff batting average around the Mendoza line. Ross, is hitting .368. The Giants have three home runs in the NLCS. Ross has all three. Ross has 13 total bases through three games. The rest of the team, 16 combined. If there's an early favorite for series MVP, that's the guy.

Ross' heroics overshadow the fact that the Giants still aren't hitting. Much was made about Bruce Bochy shuffling the Game Three line-up, but the 3-4-5 guys in the order were still only 1 for 8. The Giants aren't going to overpower anyone. They are, however, getting the kinds of breaks that make you wonder if there isn't something beyond baseball at work here.

Come on, how many balls can one Brooks Conrad boot in one series? When did Chase Utley's glove turn into paper mache? Raul Ibanez can't hit the ball off a tee. Jeez, if Carlos Ruiz weren't leaning into pitches the Phillies would have no attack whatsover. Am I imagining things or was there a guy at the Lefty O'Doul Bridge selling Ryan Howard voodoo dolls?

Pitching? Sure. Kharma? I'll take some of that, too.

One complaint I've had all along has been that the Giants haven't been able to deliver a knock-out punch. Game Four is a grand opportunity to set up that hay maker. A three-games-to-one lead obviously wouldn't seal the deal, but needing just one win with Lincecum, Sanchez and Cain lined up would certainly raise the confidence factor.

Still, I don't want to think too far ahead. The Giants are that girl that you just know is about to break up with you. There's always this sense of dread; the thought that it's all about to go horribly wrong -- probably at your parents' house during a holiday a dinner right after grandma tells you this girlfriend is her favorite but before said girlfried reveals those "art" photos she posed for in college.

So we'll take it one day at a time and hope this is the magical year.

Pitching and luck. That's not the recipe you draw up when trying to build a winner, but it sure beats losing.


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Errors: Yes. Comedy: Not So Much

What a difference 24 hours makes. A day ago I was flying high and so were the Giants. Now, pure disgust. If the Giants intend to advance any farther in the postseason derby, their effort on Game Two cannot be repeated.

If going into this series you had told me it would be 1-1 heading back to The Big Phone, I'd have taken it. But to have the opportunity to go up 2-0 and put a foot firmly on Philly's throat get away like this? That's beyond disheartening. If there was a way to screw up, the G-men found it.

It was the misfit Jonathan Sanchez that showed up early, aided by some shaky defense and a home plate umpire with his head parked firmly in his rectum. It was a complete and utter disintigration of the bullpen that turned a tight game into a frustrating evening. And it was, once again, an offense that couldn't score at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch with a fistfull of Fifties that made everything else academic.

Nobody expects the Giants to be perfect. Anyone even considerfing that thought is bound to be disappointed. As I've said repeatedly, this is a very flawed team. They'll go as far as pitching and luck will take them. Game Two featured far too little of both.

This one took a turn for the ugly very early. Three walks from Sanchez in the first inning (including one that wasn't) plus a Giants error gave Philly its first lead of the series. The Giatns aren't buit to come from behind. Heck, they're barely built to come from ahead. Gift runs aren't part of a winning equation.

An assist goes to home plate umpire Dan Iassonga (dissect his last name to get what he was on this night) who swallowed his toungue on, uh, ball four to Rollins. Again I voice my rage against the PitchTrax system. If it works, let it call balls and strikes. If it doesn't, get rid of it. The technology and the umpires rarely agree, and all it's doing now is pissing me off. When an obvious strike results in the go-ahead run, I don't care if it's the first inning of the fourteenth, it ain't right. Human element? Screw that. Let the game be decided by the players, not the opinion of some guy who's still belching that morning's 13th donut.

Another assist to Mike Fontenot, who pretty much played his way out of the line-up with a throwing error in the first and a brain fart in the fourth. Was he waiting for an invitation to catch the damn pop-up? Yes, Sanchez pitched out of the jam, but it added throws to a total that was already excessive.

And can someone besides Cody Ross get a friggin hit? He's homered three times in two games, for a total of three RBIs because nobody else can get on base. All of four hits in Game Two? The only other offense this consistently inept loses on a nightly basis to the Globetrotters.

The top of the line-up simply isn't producing, and the worst offenders are Torres and Huff. Torres is now a glorious 1 for 10 in the NLCS thanks to Game Two's four-strikeout performance. I never thought I'd say this, but it's time to give Rowand another shot. And Bochy might as well give Panda another chance at third for all the good Fontenot has done so far.

It's also clear that the late-season sucess of the bullpen may be been a mirage. We've seen Romo and Ramirez each fold twice and Affledt was ineffective. The Giants basically have Wilson's ulcer-inducing antics, Lopez for a hitter or two, and a lot of chuck and duck. That works against the Padres. This just in, the Phillies have an actual offense.

The Giants have managed to wrest homne-field away from Phildelphia. Now they have to keep it. Cain will take the hill on Tuesday, and there's no reason to think he won't pitch well. But if the Giants don't discover some offense and plug up a leaky defense soon, the arms aren't going to matter.

Pivotal game on Tuesday. I do not believe the Giants can lose it and go on to win the series.

Time to fish or cut bait, guys. Are you the real deal or just a sidebar story to the 2010 season?

We're about to find out.


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Cody Ross: Superstar

Dear Santa,

Forget everything on my previous Christmas list. Please send me a defibrulator.

It was a battle of aces that didn't live up to the hype. Giants fans are just fine with it. Two long balls from an unlikely source, a nice night from the situational lefty, and a typical nail-biter from the closer has the Giants up 1-0 on Philly in the NLCS. Three wins separate the Giants from the World Series.

This was one of those games that everyone anticipated: Tim Lincecum versus Roy Halladay. The winner gets a leg up, the loser has fallen behind AND burned an outing from its ace. Throw in some drama from an umpire with a strike zone the size of a Republican's heart and it was high drama in the battery tossing capital of America.

Both starters were forced to earn everything they got in Game One. To say plate umpire Darrell Cousins had a tight zone is like saying Tiger Woods had a "disagreement" with Elin. Lincecum and Halladay depend on low strikes. They get pounded when they miss up. Accordingly, both were touched for long balls.

If you're a Philly fan, you expect Ruiz to step up in the playoffs and if told Jayson Werth would homer you'd say, "well, duh!" No once expected this from Cody Ross.

Truth be told, he's the guy who should be breaking out. He's spent his career in that division and had 18 career homers at Philly before this outing. Former Phillie Pat Burrell's RBI blast also should come as no surprise. And it shouldn't stun Giants fans that anyone on this team hit Halladay -- they've done it before. But the Ross story is the perfect metaphor for the 2010 Giants. He's an accident -- a waiver gamble that blew up in the Giants' face. They've picked up the dice, tossed again, and rolled a "7".

Credit to Timmy who didn't have his good stuff but got through seven frames and 113 pitches on guts as much as talent. It wasn't pretty, but it got the job done.

This is the Giants, circa 2010. Nothing is easy. They're cardiac arrest personified.

The heart is still beating.

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Who Are These Guys?

It has been four days, four glorious days, since the Giants vanquished the Braves. And for four days I've been waiting for Ed Hochuli to emerge from under the hood and take it away. But, upon further review, the Giants are still in the National League Championship Series.

I still find it hard to believe. This team that can't find a cohesive offense, that doesn't have superstar to drive it, that really has no identity at all, is four wins away from the World Series.

Maybe that's the secret.

No Barry Bonds dominating the media. No Jeff Kent spinning yarns about his motorcycle. No "Humm Baby" or "You Gotta Like These Kids" or "Gamer" marketing garbage. These guys just play ball.

Not to say we couldn't use a star or two. A couple of bats in the middle of this line-up could turn this into a truly dominant team. I like the idea of a team as opposed to the proverbial 25 guys in 25 cabs. However, I still don't trust Giants management as far as I could throw the San Francisco Belle.

We had Bonds and Kent -- and nothing to go with them. Brian Sabean has also proven he's willing to go overboard the other way, as the doomed "15 Michael Tuckers instead of one Vlad Guerrero" debacle proved.

Giants baseball is like Steve Martin's comedy. It's not pretty. It's maddening at times. Every game is a life-and-death struggle to make a walk, two ground outs and a dropped pop-up stand for nine innings. Fans know it could easily come apart at any moment.

But there are just four teams left in the drive for the prize, and this bunch of misfits is one of them.

Is it just possible that this team is the equivalent of the 1988 Dodg....Doggies...uh, Dodgeball, ...the team from LA? Everyone remembers Kirk Gibson's Bambi-esque trip around the bases but forgets that that team couldn't hit a lick. Aside from Gibson, that squad's offensive heroes were Mike Davis and Mickey Hatcher.

Cody Ross, anyone?

What does this team really have? Well obviously it's strength is pitching, but take a look at this motley crew. The four horsemen they sent to the hill versus Atlanta were a stringy-haired kid with the body of a 12-year-old who likes to smoke a little herb, a southern boy who looks like Howdy Doody mated with a dump truck, the Puerto Rican Nuke Laloosh, and a mid-season arrival who is just this side of puberty.

That group is augmented by a baby-faced catcher who appears to know everything about baseball except the meaning of the word "fear", and a closer who is a certified ninja wacko. The leaders are two college teammates who nobody wanted. The key bat in the postseason belongs to a guy the Giants didn't want but got stuck with in a botched game of waiver chess.

We won't begin to talk about rally thongs, shag runs masquerading as facial hair, and $126 million dollar benchwarmers.

It works.

God, I hate to say this, but I like this team. They induce ulcers and angina, but they're rarely boring. I just hope the powers that be understand that, regardless of the outcome, there's still work to be done.

I like winning just fine. I like excitement. But next year?  Bore me. Bore me all the way to the title.

May it be a boring quest for two in a row.





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