Tinkering around the edges.

© Getty Images

Picking up where we left off last week, now that the roster is pretty much set, it's time to put on our size 8.5 hats and play inside Bochy's head a bit. Watch out, because it's kinda dark in here, and slippery...

The good news? There are a number of switch hitters on the 40-man, which means Bochy will get more length out of his roster on a day-to-day basis. This becomes important when your field manager treats every game like the Game 7 of the World Series and you'd like to be home in time to catch the late Sunday game on ESPN.

The bad news? There aren't a lot of lineup permutations where Angel Pagan isn't be featured in the leadoff role. While I like having someone to cement the position, I'm still not convinced he can pull it off every day in our yard. But he's what we have, so you have to use him. Right?

In the end, beyond the leadoff spot, there's a plethora of options at Bochy's fingertips. Let's survey just a handful of his potential lineups...

Devil or Angel?

There are trades that drive you nuts — like you just caught your girlfriend with another dude — and there are trades that give you perma-grin — like you just caught your girlfriend with another girl, and they asked you to join the party. But then there are trades that are necessary, trades that are surgical, trades that are so businesslike that they would fall under the radar if we weren't refreshing our Twitter feeds every five sec... Hold on... Okay, where was I? Right, let's call them "trades of convenience".

The Giants weren't bringing back Andres the Giant — much as we'll miss him. They would like to have kept Ramirez, but as has been noted in many other places on the interwebs, they're pretty deep as far as right-handed relief. And Angel Pagan fills a genuine need. Again, nothing to poop your pants over, but another solid move in an offseason where Brian Sabean has had to get creative. With the Care Baer in charge, it's back to brass tacks. The hangover is, well, over.

Let's get real.

Photo © tanmanforlife

There's always a lot of talk on the Twitter thing about what it means to be a "real fan". Pissing contests erupting 140-characters at a time. Grown men whining back and forth like old married couples. Ladies behaving... well, rather un-lady-like.

It's getting fricking dangerous out there, folks, and the whole shebang has got me thinking: What exactly constitutes a "real fan"?

In the wake of the team's first title in 56 years, life-long Giants fans watched with trepidation as the park filled up night after night in 2011 with out-of-the-woodwork casual fans decked out literally from head to toe in their freshly-purchased World Champions-branded gear.

Catching up.

As I've said before, the hardest part of being a part-time blogger is keeping on a schedule, especially if you spread your passion across a wide swath of industries, hobbies, and pastimes. Which I do. But that's really another way of saying I'm lazy. I have no problem admitting that sometimes baseball is the furthest thing from my mind, and sometimes I don't feel like I have anything to add to the conversation.

So if you're looking for a daily dish, go to the big boys like MCC or BASG. Me, I don't really do this for page views. You won't see any Google ads on this Google site. I come here to vent, to let loose, to get a healthy dose of catharsis. If somebody actually reads what I write and likes what they read, that's just the all-natural whipped cream on top of my gelato.

With that disclaimer out of the way, let's dig into some recent news and notes before we dig into our turducken...

Locking up the lefties.

Forget for a moment that the Giants just committed $9.25M to two relievers for the 2012 season — one of them an above average LOOGY, the other a very bad chef.

Forget that they'll pay Javy Lopez another $4.25 in 2013.

Forget that our team was woefully inept hitting with RISP in 2011.

Forget all of that, kick back, grab yourself a Racer 5, and think about this double-down move in the appropriate context: reality.

Blame Game

What is the nougat at the center of the American obsession with scapegoating? Why must there always be someone or something to blame for our misfortunes? Are we that full of ourselves? Is it so incredulous to think that sometimes shit just happens, without judgment or discrimination? I don't think so, and I've got a lifetime of experience to back me up.

But if you want to play the blame game, then let's play...

There is no "I" in Brandon Belt.

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few... or the one." - Vulcan Proverb

Managing the 2011 San Francisco Giants might be the most impossible job in the world. What do you do when only two guys on your roster have even a shred of a clue at the plate? How can you build a productive offense around a see-the-ball-hit-the-ball, rolly-polly thirdbagger and a preppy-lookin' dude with Zito socks and a penchant for taking it back up the middle? What do you say to a pitcher who throws eight innings of two-run ball against one of the league's best offenses and takes the loss? Who do you go to for advice when you're ready to pull out every hair left on your head because the middle of your lineup just went down in order on 7 pitches in a one-run game?

These are the questions I ponder as I study the face of Bruce Bochy — the chiseled jaw of a former Navy brat, the fine lines around his eyes, the squinting gaze of a guy who's seen his fair share of bus rides and red-eye flights in a sport where chance plays just as much of a role in the difference between victory and defeat as talent and ability. I really pity the guy when he's up at the podium in the postgame pressers, groping for cliches to cover for his bottomless frustration with what has to be one of the most pathetic offenses ever to lead a division in August.

You're a good man, Charlie Manuel.

I'm choosing to ignore recent baseball-related events in Cincinnati. I will expunge them from my brain before I incur any collateral damage. I shall wipe the slate clean and look upon tomorrow as another day. Instead of wallowing in pointless abandon over this horrendous lost weekend, I will roll with the post I've been aiming to write since Thursday night...

This has to do with that little series in Philadelphia and a certain manager's comments afterwards regarding the relative merits and demerits of two young starting pitchers. To provide a frame of reference for the following diatribe, please allow me to introduce you to the studly dudes in that picture there:

We've been down this road before.

© 2010 Associated Press

Antsy morning. Up with the sun, and nothing to do but watch the Sports Reporters and read Internal Affairs in the Merc. Nothing newsworthy this week. At least not newsworthy enough to bother you while you're visiting this space in search of baseball commentary. Little did you know, you've really wandered into a deep dark corner of my subconscious mind. At any moment, a crazed ex-girlfriend or a GIF of Jose Cruz Jr. dropping Jeff Conine's popup might jump out from behind a curtain and scare you shitless. Welcome to my world.

Now that we have all the caveats out of the way, let's get down to brass tacks: I hate the trade deadline. I abhor the rumor mill. I despise prognostication based on little more than idle conversation over the phone in traffic on the 405 — or Sepulveda, but who would be insane enough to sit in that mess? Team A interested in Player B but doesn't want to part with Prospect C. Oh, but wait, Team D now asking for Prospect E and a little cash to sweeten the deal long enough for Team F to jump in the mix and make things interesting... Btw, I heard this from Team G's clubhouse attendant. Yeah, it's fun to banter this shit about, but what's the point if you're not the guy who can pull the strings and make it happen?

Maybe I'm just getting old, and maybe I've been through too many Julys, and maybe I've seen Sabean make too many shrewd but wholly nondescript moves, a few of which helped us win a little thing called the World Series last year... and a few of which became Ryan Garko. My point is, it should be bluntly obvious to any Giants fan that Sabean has been reluctant to pull the trigger on the so-called "blockbuster" deal ever since he dealt Joe Nathan, Francisco Liriano, and some guy named Boof to the Twins for a dude who played one season in SF, set a club record for GIDP, and went on to win a World Series with the White Sox the very next year. (It's not worth mentioning his name this early in the morning.) Prior to that much-maligned move, the man was a wheelin', dealin' machine...

Second verse, same as the first...

Can't believe it's been two weeks since I last spoke to you in more than 140-character bursts. Oh, well, that's the life I lead. As everyone else begins to relax and take a little vacay, I tend to get busy keeping myself organized. Probably why I love baseball so much. It feeds right into my obsessive compulsions. There's no shortage of stats or highlights or sabermetrics to keep my mind occupied until the wee morning hours as I stare out the window wondering... "Do I dare to eat a peach?"

This, of course, is a very long-winded — Dickensian, if you will — manner of apologizing for leaving you hanging. But then again, I sincerely doubt you lacked for online entertainment in my absence from the blogosphere. There are, as I've discovered, other baseball blogs out there. Besides, the mini-hiatus gave me time to come to a few epiphanies about our 2011 San Francisco Giants, and damned if I don't feel a little lighter in the shoulder region. I'll share them with you now in the stead of another cookie-cutter midseason report...

Smoke and Mirrors

Design by thecitygraphics.com

Let's see if you recognize this pattern: Team A falls behind early by a run or two and can't get anything done against Team B's starter. Around the seventh inning, Team B has to go to the bullpen, and Team A suddenly rallies to steal the game. If you identified this as the Giants' modus operandi at home in 2011, you are correct. But the same narrative could also be used to describe the three losses the Giants absorbed on their most recent road trip to the American Midwest.

The Giants simply aren't used to blowing leads, and we as fans are not used to seeing them blown. It's disconcerting when the best bullpen in baseball doesn't deliver the goods. Now that Brian Wilson has been elevated to a godlike status not just by the Giants and their fans but by the marketing execs at Major League Baseball™ who know a good cow to milk when they see it — please to consult the Ubaldo Jimenez mini license plate spot ("Zander?") — the ninth inning has a cone of pride and ego enveloping it. And when the cone is pierced, it lets loose a primal roar of frustration.

A Tale of Two Bochys

Way back in September of '97, as the Giants were hurtling toward an eventual National League West pennant, two days after Brian Johnson's epic dance around the bases at the 'Stick, smack in the middle of taking three of four from the Fathers at ol' Jack Murphy Stadium — when that was still its name — the Giants played an absolute stinker. It was, for all intents and purposes, an all-too-common brain fart in an otherwise memorable season.

It's safe to say the '97 Giants took their share of beatings. 16 times they gave up 10 runs or more, including four 15-plus spots, two 11-0 losses to the Hated Ones, and a 19-3 shellacking by Felipe Alou's Expos. But the 12-2 drubbing they absorbed at the hands of Bruce Bochy's Padres on September 20th was significant for two reasons: 1. It was my first game in San Diego. 2. My favorite pitcher at the time, the great Shawn Estes... got lit the f*** up.

I'd driven down on my own after failing to convince any friends to join me. I was flying high on the Brian Johnson Kool-Aid, and cocky enough to think I could find a sports stadium without the help of, you know, a map. (Mind you, this was 10 years before the introduction of the Google Maps app.)  Needless to say, when I pulled off I-5 in Downtown San Diego, the game was just getting underway. As I stopped for directions and tuned in to the Padres flagship, Estes was already in trouble, Greg Vaughn was about to have a very good day, and I was about to embark on a journey through the Southern California suburban wilderness...

Striking a Balance

Over the weekend, when ESPN's Buster Olney reported on high-level talks concerning Major League Baseball realignment scenarios, he touched off a firestorm of debate, discussion, and diatribes that continues to clog up the blogosphere and distract us from the season at hand. I've spent the better part of the past few hours playing catch up on all the assholes — I mean, opinions — out there, swirling around the web like stray pieces of paper in a toilet bowl. Seems like everybody's got one.

In case you've been living under a rock for the past few days — or your cat peed on your cable modem — Buster reported that owners and players are considering a consolidation of MLB into two wide-open 15-team leagues with five playoff spots each. What would that mean, exactly? I'm glad you asked. From my vantage point, we're looking at three major impacts:

1. Endless Interleague. Balancing the leagues necessitates at least one interleague series to be happening at all times. Good for revenue. Fun for the fans — the ones that still get a kick out of it, anyway. What's the problem? Picture the Giants coming down to the wire for a playoff spot and having to face the Yankees over the final weekend.
2. Hella Frequent Flyer Miles. Instead of starting from a base of 18 games each against four divisional opponents, I envision a schedule something like this: 10 games each against 14 intraleague opponents and 22 total interleague games (amounting to a home-and-home w/ your "natural" rival and five series against a 4-5 teams additional from the opposite league every year). This means a lot more travel and a lot more sleepless nights for players.
3. Bonus Baseball. Five playoff teams means an additional round. But you can't squeeze many more games into the postseason without pushing into November every year, and unless you want to see more snow in the World Series, that's not a good idea. So the 4 and 5 seeds in each league duke it out in just the type of winner-take-all match-up Bud Selig alluded to as early as last year. Depending on your opinion of the relative benefits of short series or one-game playoffs, this could be a good or bad thing.

So, what do I think of all this? I'm glad you asked...

The Un-Naturals

What the hell is lurking in the waters of McCovey Cove? The ghosts of Candlestick Park? Ken Kesey's Kool-Aid? A magical dragon called Huff? Inquiring minds want to know, because this is getting ridiculous. This whole post was going to be about my experiences at the park yesterday and the most inspiring win of the season, but it seems as though every game keeps trumping the last. It's gotten to the point that when birthday boy @JeremyAffeldt drew a walk in the bottom of the 10th, I started laughing uncontrollably. I'd hardly contained myself by the time Freddy "Ballgame" Sanchez ended things with a patented oppo slap job and Chris Stewart had his moment in the afterglow that pervades everything that happens at 3rd and King these days... aside from one quite horrific night.

There is no stat for what the Giants are doing this season. There is no sabermetric that could possibly explain it. How can a team with a run differential of +4 be eight games over .500 and a game ahead of the hottest team in the sport for first place in their division? That's just not natural. And neither is this team. It's like the pennant race and playoff chase of 2010 carried over into spring training and kept right on bucking. If they'd only come all the way back on Opening Day against the #Doyers, you could say it's been a perfect storm that's carried the Giants thus far. No doubt, they've had moments that confound the soul and crush the spirit, this re-united band of fartknockers. But they've had far more that elicit orgasms of joy all across Northern California — and all the way across the country in a Manhattan bar at two in the morning.

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.

Steal this game.

Manny awaits his big moment | Photo by Ash Kalra

So there we were. The 'pen had just blown a 2-0 lead for Jonathan "Dirty" Sanchez, who despite all his demons managed to find the better angels of his nature in yet an other "quality start". Before Jeremy Affeldt could utter "Jesus wept," the misfits were down 4-2, and Gio Gonzalez had re-discovered his best stuff. When you consider the Giants have the second-worst run production in MLB, that's gotta be a "Game Over" scenario, right?

Well, a funny thing happened on the way to what would have been certain defeat even two years ago. Bob Geren lifted Gio during a futile 7th inning rally and turned the game over to the vaunted A's bullpen (#sarcasm), Miguel Tejada got his second (second!) hit of the afternoon, and Nasty Nate Schierholtz from San Ramon Valley got just enough of a mistake on the inner half to launch it into the Arcade just inside the fair pole. Tie game. Two innings later, after a refreshingly dominant performance from Sergio "Heart-Crushing Two-Strike Gopher Ball Victim" Romo, @DarRunFord and his BFF Manny Burriss formed like Black Voltron to send the home team and its spoiled fan base home in hysterics... once again.

Back to the Torture

Design by Jason Wong | thecitygraphics.com

I began to get the feeling when the unlikeliest of heroes — Aaron Rowand and "Michael" Tejada — got the winning hits on Opening Day and Opening Night respectively. It occurred to me quite often during the wild series with the Doyers by the Cove. And it simmered in my mind throughout the 10-game roadtrip. But it really struck me during the final moments of Thursday's afternoon defeat at the hands of the Metros, particularly the ninth inning rally against the dreaded K-Rod... The 2011 Giants are starting to look an awful lot like the 2010 version.

You really can't start worrying yet.

Seriously. It's just as reactionary as getting all hyphy 'cause your team jumped out to a hot start. Admit it: If the Giants were cruising through the first few weeks of the season, you'd be all over Twitter and the blog comments talking nonstop smack about how the Boys were on their way to a repeat and y'all better watch out! And if they were barely scraping by like the, ahem, Red Sox Nation, you'd be paging Chicken Little and devising new and exciting ways to kill yourself... slowly. But everybody regresses or progresses to their natural mean at some point. Everybody's gonna win 60 games. Everybody's gonna lose 60 games. It's what you do with the 42 in between that counts.

IMHO, over the 2011 season's first 20 games, the Giants have played 6 of the Middle 42, and they're 4-2 in those games:

Tiny Miracles

It was like a tiny miracle. After the pomp and the circumstance, after the game ball was presented to the fans, and the flag was presented to the team, and Brian Wilson made his mad dash to the flag poles in center field, and the crowd roared as it was raised into the crisp cobalt blue sky on one of the prettiest San Francisco days you'll ever see...

Like everything else about the 2010 Giants, one of the final codas came together like a fine cocktail or a tasty salsa. As the words of Freddie Mercury rang throughout the park, the air was still over McCovey Cove, and as the music behind the words swelled to a crescendo, and the orchestral choir joined in to sing out "We are the champions!" a breeze caught the banner and set it ablaze in a wash of orange and black, and the words "2010 World Series Champions" unfurled for the 43,000 faithful to admire and enjoy. And we did bask in the glow of the achievement of our baseball-loving lives. And the air smelled sweeter. And the sausages were delicious.

And then, they played a game. I'm not going to bore you with the particulars of the 5-4 epic battle that took place by the shores of San Francisco Bay on April the 8th in the year 2011. I'll leave that to scribes more talented than myself. Like this guy. Or this guy. Or this guy. If you want to know what I thought of the game, you can check my Twitter timeline. I will say this: No matter how much we want to ditch the torture idiom, it will always be there for this team. We are not Red Sox Nation. We'll never blow anybody away with our talent on paper. But boy, when this team comes together, they can do just about anything at any given moment. And they did it all yesterday.

I feel kinda bad for Eli Whiteside. Poor dude was the only guy on the 25-man who didn't get into the game. But that happens when you're the backup catcher to the reigning Rookie of the Year. And I have a feeling he was just as keyed up as anyone else in the park. He'll get his chance to contribute to this season's success or failure. Baseball finds everybody on that bench sooner or later, and makes them answer for themselves.

It also finds new ways each and every day to make you turn your head and say to the person next to you, "Damn, I've never seen that before." Case in point: Tonight, we #PutARingOnIt...

The Wrath of Chavez Ravine

It could have been any of us. I've been going to Giants games at Chavez Ravine for 15 years. I've seen some crazy shit. I've seen enough to keep me from being surprised when things like this happen. It's the cost of doing business when your target market is alcoholic thugs. Yeah, I said it. But they're just words. Much as I'd love to sometimes, I know that it's just not right to crack a Doyers fan over the back of the head and kick him while he's down. It's just not right to shank a guy in the parking lot because he's wearing a different jersey. It's just not right to shoot another man over baseball...

Yet all of this and more has occurred at Doyer Stadium in just the last eight years. And that's not to mention a million tiny slights, thousands of needless confrontations, and hundreds of unprovoked assaults. I've seen the way we treat their fans in our yard. Once, at Candlestick, I saw a Giants fan boo a little girl in a Doyer hat. But I've never seen a 10-year-old Giants fan call a grown woman a "motherfucker" and flip her off while his father cracked a prideful grin. Yet that happened to my friend on Thursday night, the same night Bryan Stow was beaten, dropped, and kicked until he was thoroughly broken.