Day off. Time to answer THE question.
People who read this blog ask me why I hate the Giants so much. For the record, I don’t. I’m crazy about the Giants and have been since I was seven. I want them to win only slight less passionately than I want one (or both) of my boys to win the Nobel Prize. Heck, I named one of my boys after a player. If that’s not a fan….
It may come as a shock, but I look forward to the day when I can post something about the Giants juggernaut running roughshod over the baseball world and finally delivering that title that each of us diehards so richly deserves. I want to praise Brian Sabean (or his repalcement) for building a winner. But mostly, I just want to savor victory.
Baseball, and the Giants, are a family tradition. I’m a Central California native but my family’s roots are in Oklahoma. The family came this way in the mid 1950s, just barely preceding baseball’s move out west. Because MLB was basically confined to the Northeast and Midwest, fans elsewhere usually ended up rooting for one of the New York Three.
For my grandfather, the man who first taught me to love baseball, it was the Giants. He would later swear allegiance to the Angels but I stuck with the G-men. I grew up on McCovey, Mays and Bonds Part I. I suffered through Johnny LeMaster and Fred Breinning. I died with every swing and miss from Dave Kingman and Rob Deer. I’ve long waited for my fandom to pay off.
I’ve seen a Boston team that was supposed to be cursed win the World Series twice. I’ve seen the Twins, who were a joke in my youth, do the same. I saw the ChiSox end decades of frustration. I’ve seen the Mets, the lowly comic-book Mets, win a crown. I’ve seen titles go to teams like Arizona, Florida and Toronto that weren’t even in existence when I began watching baseball. And I watched the Giants waste arguably the greatest hitter who ever lived.
And who can forget " Game Six". I sat in the left field corner of Angels Stadium and watched the dream die in bloody agony like something out of a Tarantino film.
I’m tired of waiting. I want the front office to care as much as I do.
For the record: I Love the Giants. But there are two kinds of love, and again it’s a family thing. Little kids love Mom and Dad unconditionally. Every time I enter the room my boys look at me like it’s the best thing that has ever happened. In their eyes, Dad can do no wrong.
I love my kids, but it’s not the same thing. You’d lose your mind if he was 26 and still living on your couch. You want them to be the best they could possibly be, to make the most of their opportunities and get the maximum out of whatever talent they have. If they don’t, you still love them, but you’re also sorely disappointed.
That’s how I feel about the Giants. I don’t hate them. Just the opposite. Maybe I love them too much. I desperately want them to realize their potential.
Hopefully this fast start is a sign of things to come. The wait has been long enough.
People who read this blog ask me why I hate the Giants so much. For the record, I don’t. I’m crazy about the Giants and have been since I was seven. I want them to win only slight less passionately than I want one (or both) of my boys to win the Nobel Prize. Heck, I named one of my boys after a player. If that’s not a fan….
It may come as a shock, but I look forward to the day when I can post something about the Giants juggernaut running roughshod over the baseball world and finally delivering that title that each of us diehards so richly deserves. I want to praise Brian Sabean (or his repalcement) for building a winner. But mostly, I just want to savor victory.
Baseball, and the Giants, are a family tradition. I’m a Central California native but my family’s roots are in Oklahoma. The family came this way in the mid 1950s, just barely preceding baseball’s move out west. Because MLB was basically confined to the Northeast and Midwest, fans elsewhere usually ended up rooting for one of the New York Three.
For my grandfather, the man who first taught me to love baseball, it was the Giants. He would later swear allegiance to the Angels but I stuck with the G-men. I grew up on McCovey, Mays and Bonds Part I. I suffered through Johnny LeMaster and Fred Breinning. I died with every swing and miss from Dave Kingman and Rob Deer. I’ve long waited for my fandom to pay off.
I’ve seen a Boston team that was supposed to be cursed win the World Series twice. I’ve seen the Twins, who were a joke in my youth, do the same. I saw the ChiSox end decades of frustration. I’ve seen the Mets, the lowly comic-book Mets, win a crown. I’ve seen titles go to teams like Arizona, Florida and Toronto that weren’t even in existence when I began watching baseball. And I watched the Giants waste arguably the greatest hitter who ever lived.
And who can forget " Game Six". I sat in the left field corner of Angels Stadium and watched the dream die in bloody agony like something out of a Tarantino film.
I’m tired of waiting. I want the front office to care as much as I do.
For the record: I Love the Giants. But there are two kinds of love, and again it’s a family thing. Little kids love Mom and Dad unconditionally. Every time I enter the room my boys look at me like it’s the best thing that has ever happened. In their eyes, Dad can do no wrong.
I love my kids, but it’s not the same thing. You’d lose your mind if he was 26 and still living on your couch. You want them to be the best they could possibly be, to make the most of their opportunities and get the maximum out of whatever talent they have. If they don’t, you still love them, but you’re also sorely disappointed.
That’s how I feel about the Giants. I don’t hate them. Just the opposite. Maybe I love them too much. I desperately want them to realize their potential.
Hopefully this fast start is a sign of things to come. The wait has been long enough.
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