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.
