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Fantastic voyage - I will use your talents come baseball season, my friend. Or if we box. [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
The Anti-Blue

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Fantastic voyage [Sep. 11th, 2010|07:49 pm]
The Anti-Blue
[Current Mood |creativecreative]

What a roller coaster this season is so far. (Just because I haven't been posting doesn't mean I haven't been following!) As we launch into the final three weeks of regular play, here's a quick n' dirty timeline to run down some high and low points of the season. With any luck, I will still be writing about the Giants in a month.

April 9: Four straight wins?! At this rate, we'll go undefeated this year! This is math I can easily do.

April 10: Hmm, I guess the Giants are human after all. 161-1 it is.

April 17: I love Tim Lincecum, ad infinitum.

April 21: What an infuriatingly low-scoring series that was. And who the hell is this Matt Latos character?

May 1: Why couldn't I have gotten a picture with Tim Lincecum, whom I love, ad infinitum? Oh wait, Cain got a win. Fine, baseball gods, I am pacified. For now.

May 13: On the losing side of a three-game sweep in which we score a total of four runs and are absolutely hamstrung at the hands of Matt Latos... We must be playing the Padres! (Also of note: Bent on leaving a trail of utter devastation in his wake, Latos decides to cripple dear Dave Flemming's innocent car as well. What kind of monster is that?)

May 16: I wish we could just play the 'Stros all year long.

May 23: "I hate baseball and I hate all of you! I'm never coming back to baseball, never!"

May 28: At this point in the season, my two biggest wishes are that the Giants promote Joe Martinez as the fifth starter and demote Wellemeyer, and that they promote Buster Posey and send down someone, almost anyone -- which proves to be a prescient idea as Posey is called up the next day and immediately establishes himself as a god among men.

June 4: The Pat Burrell Reclamation Project begins, a sub-division of the Posey Era.

June 11: Wellemeyer lands on the DL with what I diagnose as severe, irreparable damage to his pitching muscle. Martinez is recalled, and I do a dance of joy. Meanwhile, Buster is tearing it up.

June 28: Going to weeknight games is a pain. I gotta leave work early, change my clothes, arrive at the park with barely enough time to settle in before the first pitch, and go straight to bed when I get home. The hassle can easily be ameliorated, of course, if the Giants beat the Dodgers, if I don't get stuck behind some Eugenio Velez-looking mofo in a Dodgers cap, and if there isn't an obnoxious bitch a few rows back calling Giants "fuckin' pussies" through seven innings until another woman finally asks her to kindly shut the hell up. Fate is not kind to me on this night.

June 30: NEVER in a million years did I think the Giants would rid themselves of Bengie Molina before his contract was up. Bold move, front office. *golf clap*

July 1: The Giants embark on an 11-game road trip, and Kuiper on KNBR declares that they will return having gone 6-5 -- better yet, 7-4. Murph and Mac can barely suppress their incredulity, and as the team has lost five in a row I silently scold Kuip for drinking so early in the morning. Little do I know.

July 17: Turns out there IS magic inside, it's just that someone forgot to mix it in until July. Tim Lincecum Bobblehead Day is a great success. Torres and Huff are both red-hot, and I can't even imagine a day when Buster will ever stop hitting. Bonus: Even after waiting hours in the sun for a bobblehead (complete with paintbrush-bristle hair), I don't get burned!

July 28: Torres says, "Eff this noise," wins it in extra innings and gives me something to smile about all the way home from work.

July 29: Buster's streak ends, but not before all of baseball gets to see what a stud he is. I want this month to go on forever.

July 31: Sam's Chowder House in Half Moon Bay temporarily turns into a sports bar as several Giants fans cheer and applaud a late-inning comeback over the yucky Dodgers. They do go on to sweep. However, the trade of Joe Martinez to Pittsburgh puts a bit of a damper on the day for me. I still think about it and sigh. I miss that guy.

August 8: Okay, it was a bit out of line for Sanchez to predict that they'll sweep the Padres. But I don't think it's as big a deal as everyone's making it out to be. In fact, I rather welcome this display of bravado from someone normally so stoic. Now go out and back it up! Yeah!

August 13: I spent money to watch Sanchez make a liar of himself, and fools of us all? Dammit.

August 18: August is so much different from July. And by "different," I mean worse.

August 24: Whoa, whoa! Slow down, guys. You've already used up about eight games' worth of runs in this series against the Reds! Can't we just, like, scratch some of them from the record and store them for Cain's next few starts? What if we need these later?

August 25: What could have been The Best Comeback of All Time turns into a 12-inning loss, but for some reason I still want to give them a gold star for effort. The Giants teams of yesteryear would not have fought this hard.

August 30: At least once a year, there is a loss that makes me want to lie down and die. Fine, I'm being dramatic. But I do need to seek a cool, dark, quiet room, close my eyes, and search my mind for a place devoid of all cognizance, a safe haven where the memory of this loss cannot encroach. Ryan Spilborghs provides this loss. I scream at the television, pound my fists on the floor, and then curl up in bed and fall asleep for lack of the will to do anything else.

September 4: I'm in Fenway Park, and it's awesome! Another ballpark checked off my list. Boston loses, and I, wearing a Red Sox cap, pretend to be disappointed. But having already watched the scoreboard and noted that the Padres lost earlier, there's not much to be sad about. With no Giants broadcast in Boston, I miss a hell of a win later that night.

September 5: It's my birthday, the Giants beat the Dodgers and the Padres lose their tenth straight. I couldn't ask for anything more, baseball-wise, but... shouldn't we be in first place by now? I mean, 10 straight losses, holy hell.

September 10: First place is awesome! It's everything I imagined and more! We're in this thing! We believe! Yes we can! Hummm baby! There's so much magic inside that it's now on the outside!

September 11: Booo.

Now that the Giants and their fans have breathed that sweet, sweet first place air, there's no going back. Second place is not a position to be proud of. It is not a spot to put down roots and make a home. Once upon a time, we might have shrugged and said, "I'm just glad we have a winning record this year." That time has passed. There is no honor in settling. We now rage with the bloodlust of an angry peasant mob, suddenly made aware of our rights and our power, storming in to end the Padres' unjust tyranny over NL Westdom. Our torches burn bright and our pitchforks are sharp, gleaming. The Padres see us rollin'; they hatin'. Donning horrendous camo-uniforms, they steel themselves for a battle. Pitchers will duel to exhaustion, and runners will move station-to-station in a flurry of bunts and sac flies. Bloodshed is inevitable; hopefully Scott Hairston loses an eye. But we will not be beaten and from the midst of all the small ball, we will emerge victorious. The Giants have come so far. How can there be any other way?

Oh, yeah, the wild card. I forgot about that. Mm, okay, if the wild card is our ticket to the post-season, yeah. I guess we would accept that. But we'd rather just win the division! You hear that, Padres?! We would rather win the division, if you please!!!
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