"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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