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.