The Rule of Threes

Justin Bour is your new bicycle.

Baseball is a funny thing. It's a marathon that ends in a sprint. It's a physical game that plays out cerebrally. It's a roller coaster that can feel like it's going up and down and upside down all at once. That's why I don't get too bent out of shape over series like the one the Gaints [sic] just concluded in Miami.

Yes, it was painful. Sweeps are always painful for the swept. Yes, the games themselves were excruciating to experience. But as Giants fans, we've been through this before, and on a much larger stage. (For you kids out there, just Google "2003 NLDS".) No, I refuse to feel all butt-hurt.

Why? Because the series was so darned interesting! Think about it...

Three games, each decided for the home team on the back of a three-run home run...

Rookie Justin Bour dropping the hammer on Giants pitchers not once, not twice, but three times...

A matchup of two pitchers who hadn't taken an MLB mound since the Spring of 2014...

The visitors losing one game despite collecting 14 hits and benefitting from three errors by the home team...

Series like this are what we live for as baseball fans. We accept that life is a bit weird, and we love our sport of choice because it reflects that weirdness. The galaxy surrounding our team can be sucked into a black hole on a moment's notice, on a single pitch, and we have to learn to live with that intransigence. Because who the heck wants to watch golf? I mean, really.

Where have you gone, Gerald Dempsey?

There is no crying in baseball. But there is horror. Pure, unadulterated horror... No matter which player had ended up in a heap at the plate in the 12th inning of Wednesday night's loss to the Marlins, it would have been a horrific sight, a horrific moment, a deafening breach in the veneer of baseball, the gentleman's sport, our national pastime. Indeed, I thought I had gone deaf, as the very soul was sucked out of the crowd in one unconscious gasp, and suddenly you could hear creaking masts on yachts parked in the marina, seagulls in the distance impatiently awaiting their evening feast, water lapping on the shores of McCovey Cove. To say it was quiet in the house just does not do it justice. That is as soft a crowd as has ever graced the stands at 24 Willie Mays Plaza.

103 down. 59 to go.

Got a few minutes between politico events here in the City by the Bay, so I plopped myself down at Philz and pulled out the ol' laptop to give you my one-word comment on yesterday's "contest". And that word, is "Meh." I'm not going to obsess over one game in a sport where you play 162 before it's all said and done, and you shouldn't either. Just look at it this way: The boys were saving all their hits for the ducking Fodgers. BTW: Squish, squish, no hitting streak record for Buster, but man is this kid a class act. Let's get back to thinking about winning. Damn right, BP! Speaking of which, did anyone else notice #MadBum entered the game 4 for his last 4 with a sub 1.50 ERA? Bonus question: When's the last time you thought of the name Todd Wellemeyer? War Panda for coming up huge with the doink that kept this from being the sixth no-hitter of the (not even two-thirds completed) season. I don't think a loss would slow down the Giants one bit. Getting no-no'd in their own yard? Yeah, that could do it. See you at the Cove tonight, my little droogies. Don't forget to follow along on the ol' Twitter thingie.

102 down. 60 to go.

This is a game of signs and symbols, and Wednesday's tilt was no different. After blowing a 7-run lead with three to play, the Orange and Black had two paths in front of them, like a kid reading a Choose Your Own Adventure book: 1. Blow the game completely; 2. Win. Championship teams take the latter path. Teams that plan on golfing in October take the former. But it's not a conscious choice. You're either a championship-caliber team, or you're not. You're either a deep, resilient, hardscrabble team, or you're a pocket full of posies — no offense to the one we call "Buster". So while it burns me to no end that "Dirty" Sanchez, Denny "Don't Call Me Lenny" Bautista, and Brian "Torture" Wilson blew a laugher, I can't be that upset, because when I look in the standings this morning, it goes down as a W. Doesn't matter how we got there. In sports, the end result is all that counts. It's important to remember lessons like that when you're pulling your hair out after "His Name Is" Dan Uggla brings his one-man wrecking crew to bear for the umpteenth time in this series. BTW: I linked you to some Shoe-gate copy yesterday, and I don't want to get too deep into it today. Suffice it to say that, no, I don't think Weezy's footwear and the surrounding "controversy" had anything to do with him blowing the save. Did he let his ego get the better of him when he chucked a 3-2 fastball into Uggla's happy zone? Maybe, but should we really be surprised? This guy goes balls-to-the-wall at all times. Doesn't matter what shoes he's wearing or what opposing managers whose names are hardly household material have to say about them. It's always a crap shoot with the Weez, but 91% percent of the time, he's on the mound for the final out of the game. A couple other notes: Buster keeps marching on. With Strasburg headed to the DL and BP now getting national attention from ESPN and others, the path to ROY honors is set. But honestly, I don't give a mess about awards. I love this kid because he makes us a contender. Without him, we'd be floundering around .500 with the Rocks and Doyers. Oh yeah, and if you follow my Twitter thingie, you may have noticed I got into it with Marlins rookie Logan Morrison (@LoMoMarlins), who called out Giants fans in a tweet before the game. The kid had a good game despite my incessant taunts, but I hope MadBum keeps him winless for his career today. He's batting second again, so I'll have ample opportunities to jib and jab. That is all.

101 down. 61 to go.

And then, it was 20... Kinda felt like a playoff game as opposed to a weeknight tilt against one of the league's younger teams. The heated atmosphere even came through in HD. So much to praise from this one: we held our own against the hottest pitcher in the game; we hung three runs on his line for the first time in three months; Juan U-RIBE and Edgar "Dude, where's my bat speed?" Rentería came up huge against the Florida bullpen;  Buster stayed hot and is fast approaching Stretch McCovey's San Francisco hit streak record; Aaron "Automatic 0-2" Rowand picked up another pair of hits; Serg and B-Weezy held it down in relief of a hit-and-miss Shotgun Cain... I could go on, but let's just say this: Good win, boys. Didn't hurt that the Hated Ones shut out the Fathers in San Diego, putting the Orange and Black just 2.5 back in the West, the closest they've been in months. That's not to say Butch was thinking blue. It's still far too early in this race to start rooting for the Doyers. Besides, we're leading the Wild Card Division, so who cares about the West, right? BTW: If you're lovin' Weezy's new bright orange kicks, check out this item from Henry Schulman's Splash blog on SFGate.com. According to the Twitter feed of CSN's Amy G, Wilson received the questionable cleats unsolicited from Nike. Apparently, they magically appeared in his locker at the All-Star Game in Anaheim. This makes me wish Phil Knight would visit in the middle of the night and leave a pair of Jordans in my closet. How 'bout it, Phil?

100 down. 62 to go.

Outta here? Fan interference? Did he get both feet in? Doesn't really matter now. My first live experience with instant replay ended on a positive note for Aaron Rowand and the Orange and Black, even if it didn't lead to an eventual victory. Despite the unhappy result of Game #100, it was comforting to see the bats come alive in the late innings, and I was once again impressed by my team's refusal to go quietly into the night. This is the kinda game that, even in defeat, gives me hope for the remainder of what's sure to be a wild and crazy pennant race. It was obvious the boys were spent. 18 out of 22 games on the road will do that to you. They looked flatter than a pancake for the first six innings, but when the game was on the line, they put the tying run at third and the winning run in the batter's box. That they didn't finish off the comeback is disappointing. If they hadn't even made the effort? That would be demoralizing. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: You can accuse the Giants of falling short in a lot of categories, but resilience is not among them. Don't put it past these guys to come out tonight and stick a hot poker up Josh Johnson's rear end. After all, they live to rebound. BTW: War Buster Posey on his 19-gamer. How 'bout you put a little suspense into it one of these nights, kid? Where's your sense of drama? (And I don't mean coming up lame after sliding into third.) As for the guy on the bump, is there some sort of mental plague haunting the starting rotation? Why do we have the market cornered on headcase pitchers? And when are they gonna get their collective heads straight? Here's hoping it's sometime around August 1st. Otherwise, this is gonna be one torturous 62-game stretch. FYI: I'm taking a leave of absence from the Cove, but I'll be back in Section 104 for the whole Doyers series this weekend, so stay tuned to the ol' Twitter thingie.

Where the Wild Things Are

I conceived of this post about a week and a half ago as an off-day story to lead into the crucial 11-game trip that got off to a smashing start yesterday...

The G-Men were coming off a clutch road series victory in Houston, returning home to face the thoroughly incompetent Reds in a weekender before the Hated Ones came to town for a series that could have put the squad from the City right back in the Western Division mix. They had regained their Wild Card advantage over the Rocks and were flying high with new addition Freddy Sanchez off to a thrilling start in the orange and black.

I was going to tell you how the N.L. Wild Card race would come down to the two teams from the West. How the Cubs and Brewers would beat each other senseless in their attempts to chase down eventual Central Division champ St. Louis. How the Marlins don't have enough pitching consistency. How the Braves lack depth on either side of the ball. Why that didn't matter because the strength of the East from top to bottom — including the lowly Nats who shocked the world by reeling off eight W's in a row — would do in both Florida and Atlanta down the stretch anyway. How the Giants and Rockies were uniquely positioned to duke it out over the season's final weeks thanks to the weakness of 'Zona and the Pads and the overall strength of their respective pitching staffs full of young studs. And how the Giants would eventually prevail thanks to six games against Colorado in the friendly confines of 24 Willie Mays Plaza (where they still enjoy a 39-20 record despite a pitiful 2-4 homestand).

I started writing on the travel day after the Houston series. I attached links to multimedia, stat graphs, articles and blogs. I wrote prose poems in honor of Freddy Sanchez's club foot. I sang the praises of the soon-to-return "Nasty" Nate Schierholtz. Satisfied, I set the piece to post yesterday morning. I figured the only reason I'd have to scrap it would be if the G's managed to sweep the struggling Hated Ones and jump right back in the division race...

Then, this happened.

Now, our team is reeling at the absolute worst time imaginable. I said before that if they managed to hold on through this trip, they would make the postseason. While that's still a very manageable goal to aim for given they trail the Colorado team by only 1 1/2 games in the WC standings and sit 6 1/2 behind the Hated Ones — despite dropping two out of three to them earlier this week in atrociously mediocre fashion — a reasonable appraisal of this team would tell you they need the offense back in its late-June, early-July mode if they're to have any shot at all. (They certainly need to figure things out in time for the four-gamer in Denver that closes this little jaunt.)

So I scrapped my story and banged this out instead. Now, the boys have gone and dropped the first game of the trip with little more than a whimper, leaving Barry Zito hanging on the bump without a run of support for the eighth time this season — that's a full third of his starts, people (eat your heart out, Matt Cain) — and I have a hard time getting up the will to posit my theory, which still holds water, though it's leaking from numerous tiny fissures that could very quickly become gushers if the ship is not righted in short order.

I still believe the Central teams —aside from the Cards, who are suddenly running away thanks to the addition of .493 hitter and resident jackass Matt Holliday — will beat each other into bloody pulps by the time the season winds down and finish at or around .500. I still believe the East is too tough a division to produce two playoff teams. (The Phils are running away there as well, with Clifford Lee dominating N.L. batters, even in the band box that is Citizens Bank Park.) I still believe the Giants have a chance to make this a two-team race with the Rockpile. But if they're going to turn my faith into reality, they need to wake up the bats. Now.

The Giants have failed to rack up any prolonged stretches of brilliance this season. The five- and six- and seven-game winning streaks that mark well-crafted and durable teams. The kind of runs that could have put them back in the division race long ago or put some distance between them and the rest of the Wild Card pack. That deficiency has nothing to do with a pitching staff that still boasts the best team ERA in the majors (3.51). It has more to do with an offense that has never clicked on all cylinders at once.

Every player in the lineup has flashed their bat for weeks at a time, but not once have all the bats come together to put on the displays that generate sustained success. Pablo Sandoval has been a revelation, but even he has been prone to slumping thanks to his free-swinging, Vlad Guerrero-esque style at the plate. Bengie Molina's bat has only now started to come alive, but was truly needed in the season's opening months, when young talents like Panda and Schierholtz had yet to make an impact and the team was floundering around .500. Eugenio Velez was a pleasant surprise, but the shine is starting to wear off his cleats. And then there's Randy Winn, Aaron Rowand, and Edgar Renteria, a triumvirate of overpaid veterans hitting a collective .262 — and a weak .262 at that. F. Sanchez has certainly provided a spark at the top of the lineup, but without professional hitting lower in the order, there's nobody to knock him in.

Callers to the 50K-Watt juggernaut and commenters on local blogs regularly deride the team for failing to make a competetive offer for the likes of Holliday, as if one power bat would solve all of our problems. Let's not forget, the Cards already had a superstar in their lineup when they added the ass-head former Denver-ite — some kid by the name of Pujols. If Marvin Benard hit next to that guy in a lineup, he'd be a superstar, with or without the cream and the clear.

At this juncture, there's no point to constructive criticism of the Giants deadline deals. That's the past. This is the team we have now. And it's not a bad team. We're still ahead of schedule, still loaded with talent down on the Farm, still stacked with the finest pitching staff in the majors, and still within reach of the final playoff spot, the spot that propelled them to an N.L. pennant in 2002, the spot we all wish were available to them in 1993.

But games like last night's have a tendency to leave a sour taste in the mouth of the faithful, those of us who race home from work to catch the final innings of an East Coast roadie, who make the 45-minute trek up the Peninsula to stand in the bitter cold under the Arcade for three and a half hours (two and a half when Timmy or Matty pitch), who defend their boys against all enemies, foreign and domestic, who wear their orange to family functions and business meetings alike, and always with a sense of pride.

Here's hoping today's nationally-televised contest is the worm-turner that gets the Giants' season back on track. If not, it's time to start salivating for Madison Bumgarner's first start of Spring Training 2010.

¡Vamos Gigantes!