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.

Butch's 2011 Fantasy Draft Recap

Since I came back to fantasy baseball in 2007 after a twelve hear hiatus, I've had one semi-successful season and three straight clunkers. I've never been last, but I've never been first. I seem condemned to meddle in the middle. Why I find myself perpetually pursuing the prize is a matter of mere inertia as I truly don't have the time to mull over statistics and projections, let alone prepare a draft strategy contingent upon the rules and players in my particular league. But though I might lament my luck and I'm out more than a few hard-earned bucks, this little experiment has proven to be a healthy diversion from the more mundane aspects of my daily routine.

My preparation for this season's draft was virtually nonexistent and anecdotal at best. I watch enough of the MLB Network to have at least a peripheral knowledge of nearly every team in the league. I read enough Twitter posts to know who's out with a calf strain and who's suffering from mono. But mostly, I play it by feel. I like scrappy players, guys with a variety of talents, maybe not the best players on paper, but with the heart to make them stars. I also like players who fit the team name for the year. With that, I give you Team Tiger Blood:

The "Daily" 140: Cost of Doing Business

From @ButchHusky, 3:07 PM, 11 March 2011:

Quick poll of #STH tweeps: Did you pay the $400 in advance for all the 2011 promotional items? #sfgiants #bobblehead #wearableblanket

Inflation is a part of sports fanaticism. A small shift in the price of beef, and ten transactions later, we're paying $7 for something that only cost 25¢ to produce. For season ticket holders, it's just business as usual. Every year, we pay a little bit more for tickets, a little bit more for beer, a little bit more for garlic fries...

You'd like to think that winning a title would make your team magnanimous — and they've rewarded us with early entry to FanFest and special dates with #SFGTrophy. But we're also paying a few hundred bucks more for our ducats. We'll be rewarded with on-field celebrations and another great season of Giants baseball, but for a guy like me who's not exactly a Rockefeller, it'd be nice if they used this unique opportunity to cut us a break.

The "Daily" 140: Second Time Around?

From @ButchHusky, 2:24 PM, 24 Feb 2011:

I'm not saying #SFGiants won't repeat, but any rational person would recognize it's a long shot no matter what the roster looks like.

Like many of us, I've been riding high on the wings of a long-awaited championship. Cold winter months watching Hot Stove on repeat and pouring over PECOTA have yielded dynastic visions of grandeur. This is natural, and not wholly unexpected. I've often pondered how I'd react to a Giants World Series title. Would I shake the rawhide monkey off my back and snap back to reality? Or would I invest myself even more in this beautiful, pastoral sinkhole of hopes and aspirations we call baseball? To date, the latter has been the case — sometimes to an obnoxious extent. But as the season slowly encroaches, I'm humbled by recent MLB history and reserving my excitement for the return of the game and an opportunity for los Gigantes to prove 2010 was far from a fluke just by cracking October again.

The "Daily" 140: Mythbusting at McCovey Cove

From @ButchHusky, 1:30 PM, 22 Feb 2011:

Maybe we could broadcast that to the Adam LaRoche's of the league. RT @PoseidonsFist: AT&T is more neutral than people think. #sfgiants

A Twitter-sation with Purple Row blogger Andrew Fisher yesterday prompted me to re-examine a myth that players, coaches, and fans have propagated over the decade since the Giants moved to 24 Willie Mays Plaza: that conditions at our ballpark unfairly penalize hitters and reward pitchers. A quick Google search led me to a site called Park Factors. Their analysis puts AT&T in the middle of the pack, much friendlier to hitters than Petco, and far kinder to pitchers than Coors. If you’re hungry for more, my colleagues at Triples Alley did some wonderful analysis last summer in response to fan concerns.

Long story short: While the Cove certainly doesn’t give batters any breaks, there are few parks in MLB that compare with ours in terms of equity, and we, the fans, should use this as a point of pride.

The "Daily" 140: An Open Letter to Mat Latos

As a way of reconciling my day job and inordinate amount of extracurricular activities with my desire to regularly wax philosophical in this space, I've come up with a fun challenge for myself: Take one of my numerous daily tweets of 140 characters or less and convert it to a blog of 140 words or less.

If it catches on (and I keep it up), I'll make it a permanent fixture of the blog. If not, who cares? It's on the Internet. I'll just try something else.

So, without further ado, here's today's tweet of inspiration...

Dear Mat, Because you've gone from throwing balls at coaches to playing pranks w/ @HeathBell21 does not mean you've matured. Love, Butch (10:36 AM, 2/21)

...and my 140-word rewrite:

An Open Letter to Mat Latos

Dear Mat,

I caught an intriguing headline from @SportingNews on Monday, so I followed the link and read this little yarn about your personal growth with help from practical jokes with Heath Bell. I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that Anthony Witrado didn't find this tidbit as part of his obviously extensive research for the SN story. I'll also assume Mr. Witrado didn't catch this little nugget from late in the 2010 season.

I encourage you to celebrate overcoming the trials of youth that provoked you to hurl baseballs at opposing coaches and throw temper tantrums on the mound. Take pride in a tremendous MLB debut season, even if it didn’t end how you hoped. Then, suck it up, bite your tongue, and play ball. 5,000 Padres fans are counting on you.

Love,

Butch

Countdown to Scottsdale #1: Aubrey Huff, Baddass

I sing the song of Aubrey Huff, the last man in our countdown and the first Giant in our hearts. What can be said about a guy who spent nine years on last or second-to-last place teams only to find his niche and a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in San Francisco, wearing a red thong for the Orange and Black? Sitting down and writing this, it seems fitting that Aubrey Huff should be rounding out this trip down Memory Lane. I think back a few years to when I first started hearing his name and the Giants paired in the same sentence. He was on Sabean's radar for a while, and it's not difficult to understand why. His red ass nature fits right in with the mentality of this entire organization. Right down to the very last one of us fans, the Giants are one bitter bunch, but a barrel of laughs nonetheless. So a lanky, goofy, aging country ballplayer makes perfect sense as the team spokesperson/motivational speaker/practical joker/heart and soul.

I didn't know what to think when we finally acquired Huff off the free agent wire. It wasn't a bad signing by our standards. One year, three mil. And it made sense for a guy his age with diminishing numbers. At the worst, he was a stop gap until either the market opened up or talent revealed itself in the farm system. And while Brandon Belt proved he's on the cusp of making an impact in the Show, it says a lot that the front office brought Huff back around for two more years (at least) and gave him a sizable raise in the process. He was the unquestioned Leader of the Misfit Pack, the King of the Red Asses, the Elder of the Tribe. On a team that's grown noticeably younger with every passing year, Aubrey Huff was a steadying fatherly influence, the guy who scraped rock bottom and only wanted to drink from the keg of glory. And he led not only in word but in deed.

Throughout the season, the Giants offense was anchored around Huff in the middle of the lineup. He bounced around a bit at the beginning and end of the season, as Bruce Bochy struggled to find the winning formula, but on this team, there was no one else with the power or consistency to fill that void at the heart of the order. He took a long time getting off the home run schnide, but when he did, it was in spectacular fashion. And when he hit taters, he hit them in bunches. When former U of Miami teammate Pat Burrell joined the Giants in June, you could see the lift that it gave Huff after months of carrying the team. Consequently, his July was one to remember, as the Giants went 19-9 and Huff hit .367 with a 1.115 OPS, 8 HR, 6 2B, and 23 RBI.

But he struggled mightily in August, and with his team on the ropes, the clubhouse clown knew he needed to inject some life into his teammates. So he did it the only way he knew how. By now, we're all well aware of the Giants little good luck charm that inspired a 20-10 record down the stretch that — combined with an epic Padres brain fart that, let's face it, was pretty much a regression to the mean for that bunch — led the San Francisco version of the New York Gothams to a National League West title and an eventual World Series Championship. If for the Rally Thong alone, Aubrey Huff deserves a place in Giants lore alongside Lefty O'Doul and the Crazy Crab. But for his comprehensive contributions to the Season Which Will Live In Infamy, I think he gets a statue. The only question is what he'll be wearing when he sits for the sculptor.

Thanks, Aubrey.
...

So that's it. 42 players in 28 days. My love letter to the Team of Destiny. Now, it's on to 2011 and the beginning of our title defense. Bring it, Philly...

Countdown to Scottsdale #2: Pablo Sandoval, 3B

I sing the song of Pablo Sandoval, the Kung Fu Panda, the loveable rolly polly ball of athletic goo, who flew high as a kite in 2009 and came crashing back to earth in 2010, but never lost his smile along the way. The Giants haven't sent a homegrown position player to the All-Star Game since Matt Williams in 2006 — prior to 2010, the last time the National League won the Midsummer Night's Classic Type Thing. But we came awful close in the Summer of '09, and with good reason. The day baseball exhaled for the All-Star Break, Panda was hitting .333 with an OPS of .964. He had 102 hits, 24 doubles, 15 homers, and 55 RBI. He was in the top 10 of every offensive statistical category that didn't involve speed. But as a virtually unknown sophomore hot corner man playing on the edge of the world at McCovey Cove, he didn't win enough Brownie points with coaches or voters to merit an invite, despite our best efforts.

That didn't deter the Panda from lighting up the National League in the second half, nearly lifting the Giants to a Wild Card berth through the will of his generous spirit. He was just as good by the numbers after the break, hitting .327 with a slightly slimmer .919 OPS, 20 doubles, 10 dingers, and 35 RBI. But you could see his waistline beginning to expand, and in a bitter dose of irony, his regression began during his All-Star vacation, when he returned to Venezuela and pigged out on mama's home cooking. Any serious eater knows what it's like when you swell your gut with goodness and don't keep feeding the beast. You get the feeling that your stomach is eating itself. You're hungry all the time, even after an average-sized meal. You start to snack. A lot. You cut back on time spent keeping track of your body, and eventually, your body betrays you.

Panda's body betrayed him in the Spring of 2010, when he very easily could have lost his job to Mark DeRosa, had the latter not taken an early trip to the D.L. He came out of the gates hot, and all the banter was about his eyesight, which allegedly was much-improved by offseason corrective surgery. Oh, those were the times, when we talked about the dude's eyes. But once he started flailing at anything anywhere near the plate, once he couldn't catch up to the high fastball, once those five-hole shots started getting by his glove which had been so money, we all knew something was up, and like a trending topic on Twitter, Pablo's gut became Public Enemy Number One. And there was no letting up on the topic the remainder of the season.

It got so bad at one point, KNBR callers were demanding Bochy and Sabean send the kid back to Fresno to "wake him up." Meanwhile, fans on the opposite end of the fringe were spending the summer thinking every two-hit game, every home run, every run-scoring double was the end of the slump, the beginning of the Return of the Panda. But the sequel never came out. Hell, the damn thing never even made it to the editing room. Pablo had a very decent August (.312, .907, 6 HR, 16 RBI) but fell completely off the map in September (.207, .576, 1 HR, 4 RBI) to the point that he was benched more often than not down the stretch. He ceded playing time to Mike Fontenot and later Juan Uribe in the postseason, but when he wasn't in the game, he was never far from the top step. If you watch each of the four on-field celebrations, he's right there in the first wave to hit Brian Wilson each and every time.

There's no telling what had a greater impact on Sandoval's under-performance in 2010 (whether his eyes where bigger than his stomach). And while we can't go inside his head to see through his peepers, the things we can see portend of very good things indeed. Let's hope he keeps it off. Nothing less than the Giants' chances of another postseason run hang in the balance of one man's scale.

Thanks, Panda.

Countdown to Scottsdale #3: Juan Uribe, IF

I sing the song of Juan Uribe, second cousin of José, also known as UUU! RIBE!, the only man I've ever seen do a bat flip after connecting on a sacrifice fly, a good Giant once, but a Giant no more. Remember the looks on the faces of Philly phans when Juan's lawn dart eeked over the right field wall for an Oppo Taco? Like somebody ralphed on their cheesesteaks. Like they just shat themselves thinking about the season of their dreams being undone by this career reserve infielder who'd rediscovered himself with the Orange and Black. I really had to feel for them. We all should feel for them. You and me, we've been there, right? But there are two truths to this situation: 1. Philly got their title in 2008, everything else this decade will be gravy from a long-term perspective; and 2. Juan Uribe was preordained to hit that dinger.

"Jazz Hands" was an anomaly. He was a freak of nature. There won't be any way of knowing before Opening Day if the uniform gave him a lift. But I like to think that Jose's spirit seeped into the No. 5 jersey over the past two years, and found its way into Juan. His overall numbers won't show it, but every one of his 24 homers and 24 doubles in 2010 seemed to come in a clutch situation, and each of his 85 RBI seemed to win a game. He filled the void left by Pablo Sandoval's regression (and expansion), which could have sunk a lesser team with a shallower bench. Brian Sabean assembled quite the ragtag band of misfits, but he didn't splurge in any one area — beyond the obvious, ahem, Zito, ahem. He spread the payroll and built a very deep team around a killer pitching staff. And when it was time for them to shine, they all did, each in his own way.

Juan Uribe's entire raison d'etre as a Giant seemed to be to disrupt the confidence of the other team, to discourage the opposition with tomahawk chop, yuckadoo swings that either sent balls flying into the bleachers or into the stands directly behind the plate. He truly has no two-strike adjustment, swinging just as hard 0-2 as he does 2-0. And we may never know if he's allowed to swing away at 3-0 because he hardly ever gets that deep into an at bat. If there's any one thing that Miguel Tejada can replicate for the 2011 Post-Uribe Giants, it's that intensity. But his impeccable timing may prove difficult to match. We can only hope Juan doesn't come around to stick his jazz hands up our behinds like Rick Vaughn in the heat of a pennant race.

The day Uribe signed with the Hated Ones for just a few dollars more than the Giants were willing to offer over a slightly longer time period, I tweeted a good baseball friend: "I'm going to miss is our call and response." See, whenever Juan yanked one into the cheap seats, I'd unleash a joyous @ tweet to him: "UUUUUU!" and he'd respond in kind with "RIBE!". It started around mid-season and became a little tradition. A few minutes later, my friend tweeted back: "I guess we'll have to find another player to obsess over." Brandon Belt, anyone?

Thanks, UUU! RIBE!!!

Countdown to Scottsdale #4: Andrés Torres, OF

I sing the song of Andrés Torres, who resurrected his career in the orange and black, and left it all on the field — including his appendix — as the Giants made their run to Left Coast immortality. I had a dream last night that the Giants hadn't re-signed the 2010 Willie Mac Award winner, and he'd just inked a two-year deal with the Mets. Needless to say, I had a panic attack and woke in a cold sweat to the comforting reality that Andrés is indeed on contract to play at McCovey Cove this season. Why do I bother to bring this up? I mean, this ain't no place for me to work out my personal affairs...

Well, the thing is, after I woke up and went to sit on the shitter for a minute, I got to wondering: would the same dream about any other player outside of the Golden Children of the starting rotation give me the same amount of willies? Truth is, I don't know. The common perception is that the 2010 Giants were greater than the sum of their parts, that everybody overachieved at the right time and all the pieces fell into place and whatever other cliché you can think of that basically says each player played an equal part in the team's success. Well, what if the magic juice the Giants drank right around September 1st of last year all came from the same cup? And what if that cup had a big ol' Mr. T necklace?

If you've ever seen Andrés Torres give a postgame interview, you know it's all about love. He loves his teammates. He loves the fans. Most of all, he loves baseball, and it shows on the field. Nobody works harder. Nobody runs harder. Nobody plays the field with more reckless abandon. He truly is the Gazelle in centerfield, gracefully gliding between the Water Buffaloes to the spot where he anticipates the ball will come down, stopping on a dime, and depositing every scorching liner in the webbing of his mitt. In 2010, he was the ultimate five-tooler at the top of the lineup — .268, .823 OPS, 56 BB, 26 SB in 570 PAs, 1 error and 7 assists in the field — and he started the year on the bench! Not only that, he's got one lovely wife. If I was him, I probably would've stolen the mic from Jon Miller at the championship rally, too. "Thank you for coming to Andrés Torres' wife's birthday party!"

When he went down with a ruptured appendix in September, I ragged on him a bit. I have a real problem with athletes taking the "tough guy" mentality way too far. Playing through pain is one thing when you've got a bruised rib or a hip pointer or any manner of injury you can't treat other than by getting all hopped up on pain meds. But to put off a trip to the ER when your gut is on fire for two weeks straight is sheer lunacy. Yes, it all worked out in the finish. Andres got better and came around just in time to help the Giants win a little thing called the World Series, but it could have been much, much worse... You can talk about "manning up" all you want. If it was me, and my life depended on my ability to play baseball at the height of my talent, I'd be getting every hang nail checked out. But hey, that's me.

Then again, if I were Andrés Torres, and I'd spent three years of my life out of Major League Baseball, kicking around god knows where in the Minor Leagues — well, thanks to B-R, we know he was in Oklahoma, Rochester, Erie, Toledo, Iowa, Arizona, and San Jose — I might be afraid to do anything that might change the roll I was on in 2010. Who knows what can happen when you go to the doctor? Maybe you find out something you didn't care to know, or maybe something you knew all along but couldn't define. I've got a fear of medical offices and hospitals. Had it all my life, really. So I understand where the dude's coming from. But even I'm know enough to recognize when the pain ain't going away... Oh well, what doesn't kill you makes you stranger, right?

Gracias, Andrés.

Countdown to Scottsdale #5: Nate Schierholtz, RF

I sing the song of Nate Schierholtz, Bay Area native, lifelong Giants fan, victim of premature balding, and one of the finest defensive right fielders to ever work the grass at McCovey Cove. If he could only prove that he can hit a lick, he might actually make a name for himself in this league. Nate lost the starting RF job to John Bowker before the team broke camp in Scottsdale, and he never stayed on the horse long enough to win it back, even after Bowker proved he was miscast as an everyday solution. He had a good run from mid-April to mid-May, including a 5-for-5 performance in the infamous "Jayson Werth Bloop Double" game and a 3-for-3 night in South Florida, complete with one of his three dingers on the year. But Nate truly excelled as a pinch hitter, hitting a cool .310 with a .911 OPS and six walks in 35 PAs, compared to .232/.640 in 217 PAs as a right fielder. These numbers — and his lefty bat — likely triggered his inclusion on the postseason roster. He didn't see a lot of playing time, but he got a start in the World Series, and he got a ring. So, not too shabby.

Fan trivia: Nate and former Giant Randy Winn attended the same East Bay high school. Name it. (Answer at the end of this blog.)

I can't help but rep for the local boys, the hometown heroes, the Kevin Frandsens who fulfill their childhood dreams of playing for the Orange and Black — with varying degrees of success. As such, I was an early fan of Nate Schierholtz. I remember watching "Nasty Nate" take BP at AT&T back in 2007. He was raking balls up Triples Alley, slamming them off the brick archways under the arcade (message!), going the opposite way, even plunking a few into the drink. In short, he was spraying the field. I turned to the friend I was with and said, "That kid's gonna be something." I didn't say what, when, or for whom, so I'm holding out hope that my projection — while it's far from PECOTA-worthy — will one day come to fruition. Until then, I'm just happy he got to be a part of the torture in 2010.

Thanks, Nate.

(Trivia answer: San Ramon Valley High — If you got it right, you win my undying love and respect. It's all I have to give.)

Countdown to Scottsdale #6: Travis Ishikawa, 1B

I sing the song of Travis Ishikawa, who's tried his very best to crack the everyday lineup at first base, but whose very best has never been quite good enough. To me, "Hapa" is that quintessential Quadruple-A talent, the kind the Giants have specialized in producing over the past 20-odd years of building teams around Barry Bonds (and recently around a top-flight pitching staff): not quite ready for prime time, but too talented to send back down to Fresno. When you watch him take BP, you wonder when he's going to have a breakout 30-homer year, then you watch him in game situations and stop wondering. Despite his failings in the batter's box, he's always been stout with a glove, and he's never lacked for passion, though at times his passion for Jesus seems to outweigh his passion for baseball.

Fans will recall the occasional postgame interview in which young Travis thanked the Good Lord for helping that ball he hit in the seventh inning carry over the wall. Now, I have no beef with Jesus, but my problems with organized religion stem from the notion that Jesus or Allah or Buddha help us to accomplish great things in our everyday lives. We hear athletes say this shit all the time: "First and foremost, I just want to thank God for giving me the strength to win this game." I've never heard something so patently ridiculous. The truth is: WE are in charge. We make our own decisions. We are responsible for our own accomplishments. When you hit a home run or score a touchdown or redirect a corner into the back of the old onion bag — that's YOU doing it. YOU worked hard your whole life to put yourself in position to make that play at that moment in that game.

So, Travis et al., please take ownership, have a little pride, be a little cocky. It's okay. This is professional sports. The fans will forgive you. And when it comes down to it, ego makes you a better player. Waiting for Jesus to make you great is like waiting for Godot: He ain't coming, so you best get on with it.

Okay, off my soap box...

Travis entered 2010 well aware that he would be filling a niche role. With Aubrey Huff on board to man first base, Hapa's options were pretty much limited to pinch hitting and late-inning defensive upgrades. And to his credit, he embraced these options like a true professional. He never complained, never waffled, never tanked a play. He was an invaluable member of this squad, as evidenced by his position in this countdown — which is determined by games played. When Aubrey Huff did a stint in left field in July, Travis had a chance to pick up a few starts, and he excelled, hitting nearly .300 for the month. When it came time to set the postseason roster, Travis was on the bubble, but his spot was never really in doubt. He even got to start at first base in a World Series game.

Perhaps that will end up being the high point of Hapa's career — or maybe just his career with the Giants. But even if it does, he'll always be able to show off his ring and tell you how Jesus helped him win a championship.

Thanks, Travis.