And Down the Stretch they Come!

Tell me the wind wasn't blowing out?

When I coached baseball and my team was struggling, the pep talk always came right before playing a team I knew was ripe for the taking. Get the gang fired up, turn them loose on the little Sisters of the Poor. Suddenly they feel like world beaters and leave you looking like a genius.

I think Bruce Bochy went to the same school. On a day the wind turns pop flies into titanic shots and Wrigley plays like a Little League diamond, challenge a struggling offense to hit. Thriteen runs later the slump is snapped -- at least for a day.

The Giants' 13-0 drubbing of Chicago gave the Orange and Black a series win, one they needed after a diappointing effort at home. It vaulted them back over San Diego into the divisional lead, thanks to The Hated Dodgers' 3-1 win over the Friars in a game where the impotent Blue Dogs rediscovered their manhood for a a solitary night.

Thirteen runs. You gotta wonder where this has been all year, and why they can't score more consistently. This is what they do. When the stars are aligned properly, the baseball is balanced perfectly between the gravitational pulls of the moon and Pablo Sandoval, and the temperature and humidity resemble a Tahitian beach at the vernal equinox, the Giants are an offensive juggernaut.

The rest of the time, not so much.

I'm thrilled they finally busted out the sticks and hung one on Ryan Dempster who, like the Cubs, had been on a roll. It's a good sign. But we've seen this before.. it's like Groundhoug Day. The Giants score runs in bunches. They'll hang double digits on someone, then go all Punxatawney Phil on us and dive back into their hole until Brian Doyle Murray pulls them back out of the stump.

Runs. Gotta have 'em. And they can't count on having outbursts where Juan Uribe homers twice, Madison Bumgarner gets two hits, and Jose Guillen gets plunked times two -- all in the same inning. That happens about as often as Paris Hilton clears customs; as often as Bengie Molina hits for the cycle, as often as Edgar Renteria spends four consecutive weeks off the DL, as often as... you get the idea. Lightning isn't likely to strike again. So, 13 runs? I'm not exactly jumping for joy.

Wanna talk impressive? Two words: Madison Bumgarner. Like I said, the wind was blowing out. And yet this kid (and that's what he is) kept pouding the strike zone. "Here, hit it if you can." Seven frames of shutout ball on a night the Giants probably could have survived one of Jonathan Sanchez's patented meltdowns. But he kept focus, which is harder than it sounds when the game is out of hand early. Kudos to him for keeping the run of great pitching alive and continuing to relegate Todd Wellemeyer deep into the dark recesses of the "Where are They Now and Why was He Ever Here?" file.

After the pen closed it out, that made 17 straight games limiting the enemy to three runs or less (and 21 in which they got no more than four). Sad that they're only 11-6 in those games.  Just think how different the division would be if the Giants were as consistent as, say Lindsay Lohan's appearances on Celebrity Justice.

And yet, with nine games left to play they hold the future in their often shaky and arthritic hands. It's a simple "win and they're in" scenario. No problem. In those situations they always...uh...

Neifi Perez...Steve Finley.....I think I'm gonna be sick.

Don't get me wrong. I want to root, root, root for the Giants. If they don't win, well, I've kinda come to expect it.

I've personally spent forty years wandering in the World Series desert. I'd like to come in to the land of air conditioning and find a comfortable place that doesn't smell like an unwashed camel (like a washed camel smells better?). But after having my heart broken so many times, do I dare to hope?

The Rockies are now 3 1/2 back and coming off a sweep at the hands of Arizona. Are they gonna fold or just be pissed? Can anyone even mutter the words "Coors Field" and not break into a sweat? In my minds eye I see Neifi Perez going yard off Robb Nen to ruin 1998. I see Ryan Spilbourghs' grand slam that effectively ended the Giants improbable run last year. I see dead people. I want to crawl under the bed, asume the fetal positon and have the breakdown I've so richly earned over the past four decades.

But, of course I'll watch. I'll root. Hard. It's like watching Road House, a film so epicly bad that you can't pull your eyes away (are the Giants gonna be Patrick Swayze or Ben Gazarra?). I'll live and die with every at-bat. I'll whine and moan but really all I want is a hug -- and a World Series title. Earthquakes, rally monkeys, the Neifi chicken -- I think a lot of longstanding Giants fans would say the Baseball Gods owe us one.

The next three games will say a lot. While the Giants can't deal directly with San Diego, they can assure that the final week of the season is nothing more than a two-team race. A series win means the Giants go into the final homestand with the Rockies no worse than four games in the rear view (they host The Hated Dodgers while the Giants are off on Monday), and a sweep slams the door. The Giants pitching is lined up (Lincecum, Zito, Cain), although quite honestly the starters haven't been an issue no matter who hits the mound. The question, as always, is: "Will they hit?"

Thre is some small measure of comfort: at least I know Neifi Perez won't be there.


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