Timeout for Champagne (Giants Win!)
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Is it hard to focus on everything else? Don't fight it. It's rare that life affords you a moment of pause and injects... What's the word?
Orbital euphoria. Yeah, it's orbital.
They weren't supposed to be here. Brian Wilson went down. Melky suspended. Dodgers make the super-trade. Giants down 0-2 to the Reds, 1-3 to the Cards. They weren't supposed to be here. Or were they?
There are million tiny reasons 'why' or 'how,' but it came down to the unquantifiable, immeasurable, slap-you-in-the-face, turn-back-the-clock simple joy of playing baseball. And for fans, the simple joy(torture) of watching. They wanted to play just one more game together, we wanted one more chance to cheer, to rally, to smile and sigh and shed an odd tear for our boys in orange and black.
For Scutaro. For Vogey. For Zito. For Timmy. For Brother Pence and his sermons. For Crawford who grew up rooting for some of the guys he plays with now. For MVPosey. And MVPanda. For Bruce Bochy, marvelous father to us all.
"They are better men than they are baseball players," said the Skipper. Doesn't that just say it all? They were having fun for crying out loud. Not just because they were winning, but because they were playing. De facto closer Sergio Romo strikes out Triple Crown winner Miguel Cabrera with, not his no-dot slider, but a fastball. And he gets him looking. That's poetry. There were too many great stories, just too many.
The inflated value of professional sports in American culture is often lamentable. I am the first to ridicule The Fan and The Athlete, but this season was less about payrolls and rivalries, which is maybe why so many baseball pundits seemed clueless to the value of the 2012 Giants. They're not glossy and waxed, they're odd. The fans are odd. Their stories aren't statistics or sponsorships. Their lives are chronicled by plane tickets to Japan, infamous contracts that didn't pan out, bus rides to Fresno, public backlash, devastating injury. When their backs were against the wall, they didn't panic because they'd all been there before. They had perspective, gratitude plucked from the cacti in the stretches of desert.
I, for so many dumb reasons, have been particularly ornery, I get lost in my own muddled reflection and then; a meteor shower. Life stops; you orbit for just a moment, above the muck and mire of daily toil, above the doldrums, sand traps.
Be thankful for the time you have. Hope, determination, strength, it's contagious. It all changed with the little Z that could and the praying mantis from right field. Inspiration, hard work; it's contagious. Gratitude, honest affection; it's contagious.
Much respect to Jim Leyland and the Detroit Tigers. Leyland is a class act; his club reflects that.
Game recap here if you live under a rock or don't consume any kind of social media. Read it anyway, Grant Brisbee is wonderful. The only way tonight would have been better is if Kruk, Kuip, Flemming, and Miller had called the game on TV. Still. Still...
Let yourself orbit a while. Earth will be here waiting. See you boys when the daffodils herald your return to lonely fields.
Or see you on Wednesday on Market Street!
Orbital euphoria. Yeah, it's orbital.
They weren't supposed to be here. Brian Wilson went down. Melky suspended. Dodgers make the super-trade. Giants down 0-2 to the Reds, 1-3 to the Cards. They weren't supposed to be here. Or were they?
There are million tiny reasons 'why' or 'how,' but it came down to the unquantifiable, immeasurable, slap-you-in-the-face, turn-back-the-clock simple joy of playing baseball. And for fans, the simple joy(torture) of watching. They wanted to play just one more game together, we wanted one more chance to cheer, to rally, to smile and sigh and shed an odd tear for our boys in orange and black.
For Scutaro. For Vogey. For Zito. For Timmy. For Brother Pence and his sermons. For Crawford who grew up rooting for some of the guys he plays with now. For MVPosey. And MVPanda. For Bruce Bochy, marvelous father to us all.
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| via McCovey Chronicles |
"They are better men than they are baseball players," said the Skipper. Doesn't that just say it all? They were having fun for crying out loud. Not just because they were winning, but because they were playing. De facto closer Sergio Romo strikes out Triple Crown winner Miguel Cabrera with, not his no-dot slider, but a fastball. And he gets him looking. That's poetry. There were too many great stories, just too many.
The inflated value of professional sports in American culture is often lamentable. I am the first to ridicule The Fan and The Athlete, but this season was less about payrolls and rivalries, which is maybe why so many baseball pundits seemed clueless to the value of the 2012 Giants. They're not glossy and waxed, they're odd. The fans are odd. Their stories aren't statistics or sponsorships. Their lives are chronicled by plane tickets to Japan, infamous contracts that didn't pan out, bus rides to Fresno, public backlash, devastating injury. When their backs were against the wall, they didn't panic because they'd all been there before. They had perspective, gratitude plucked from the cacti in the stretches of desert.
I, for so many dumb reasons, have been particularly ornery, I get lost in my own muddled reflection and then; a meteor shower. Life stops; you orbit for just a moment, above the muck and mire of daily toil, above the doldrums, sand traps.
Be thankful for the time you have. Hope, determination, strength, it's contagious. It all changed with the little Z that could and the praying mantis from right field. Inspiration, hard work; it's contagious. Gratitude, honest affection; it's contagious.
Much respect to Jim Leyland and the Detroit Tigers. Leyland is a class act; his club reflects that.
Game recap here if you live under a rock or don't consume any kind of social media. Read it anyway, Grant Brisbee is wonderful. The only way tonight would have been better is if Kruk, Kuip, Flemming, and Miller had called the game on TV. Still. Still...
Let yourself orbit a while. Earth will be here waiting. See you boys when the daffodils herald your return to lonely fields.
Or see you on Wednesday on Market Street!
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