Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Not About Baseball



Sometimes, especially on days like these, I wonder why I'm a sports fan. Last night, I knew better than to watch my baseball team, the Pathetic Fucking Bastards Giants, play the Rockies. Or so I thought.

After a surprisingly feel-good 2009 for the first 4 months or so, the Giants have been getting on my nerves. First, their inability to put togther offense of any kind has worn on me throughout the year -- there are only so many times you can see your favorite pitchers leave it all on the mound while dominating their opponent only to settle for a no decision (or worse, a loss) before it starts to eat away at your soul. After this season, my soul is in worse shape than Michael Jackson's nose. (Too soon?) Secondly, this crucial flaw, which should have cost them their ability to compete for a playoff spot weeks, or even months ago, is only now coming home to roost in new and annoyingly inventive ways -- heading into the weekend in Colorado, they'd gone from leading the wild card chase for most of the year to trailing the red-hot Rockies.

Lastly, after taking the first game in Colorado, they laid a gigantic egg turd at the on-going nightmare that is Coors Field, losing the next two, and endangering themselves of falling out of the race with a loss on Monday to drop 3 of 4 and end up 4 games back of the streaking Rockies. What's more: They had Zito on the mound. And while Zito's been much better lately -- let's face it, as tough as it is for me to say, he's been downright good -- I didn't want to see him pitch with the season on the line.

So I didn't tape the game as I normally do. I didn't intend to watch it. But when I got home and my wife was taking a shower, I didn't think it would hurt to check in on the game. I was wrong.

The Giants were tied, 1-1, so I watched a bit. Soon, after watching their wretched excuse for an offense flail wildly at pitches everywhere but in the strike zone, I gave up on the game -- and the team. Even their best hitter, the Kung Fu Panda himself, Pablo Sandoval, was hurt and out of the game, so no reason to watch. I did, however, keep tabs on the score as I watched shows with my wife all night. 1-1 in the 6th inning turned into 1-1 in the 9th, then 12th, and finally 14th.

And then it happened. The Giants scored. Not once, or twice, but three freaking times! Suddenly, they had a chance. And, much more dangerously, had hope. Now SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION taught me that hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, but I'm certain Stephen King never watched the Giants play (he is a Red Sox fan, after all). For Giants fans, hope is a four-letter word. Well, obviously, hope is a four-letter word for everybody, but it's the bad kind for Giants fans. We learned this in 1987 and '89. And '93 and '97. And again in 2000. And '02. And '03. And '04. Maybe in the 5 preceding years we forgot, but the bottom of the 14th provided an indelible reminder. Watching the Giants "relievers" walk 3 Rockies -- including the pitcher (with the bases loaded!) -- before giving up a back-breaking, soul-crushing walk-off grand slam, was like God whispering "Gotcha!" in our collective ear.

It was apinful loss, on a road trip full of them, for a franchise well-versed in them. But it was a little more even than that. It was a reminder that even the most surprising, joyous, and innocent hopes can be turned into something embarrassing and ugly. And while, I don't like to admit it, I feel like this love/hateafraid to love relationship I have with the Giants has spilled over into other aspects of my life. I have the same distrust about potentially positive developments, and the same general feeling of unease and impending doom in aspects of my personal life. My writing in particular. I have the same "Why can't I quit this?" reaction to every setback. The same "Why does God hate me so much he must tease me like this?" defeatism. The same "Trying is pointless" pessimism.

I can't say for sure the Giants did this to me. Maybe I was already this way. Maybe I'm so fucked up I unconsciously looked for a team which seemed cursed to fit the feeling I had for myself. But it's hard to believe that when taken in chronological context -- the Giants weren't really cursed when I started watching them. I'd beenb a fan for two years before the first cursed-like event happened (Candy Maldonado, a good right-fielder, losing Tony Pena's flyball in the lights for a triple, and then making a weak throw which allowed him to score the only run in a 1-0 debacle in St. Louis is the '87 playoffs). And it's really only been in the last 16 years -- at least 7 years into my fandom -- when the real karmic shit hit the fan: 103 wins falling short in '93 (the year before the wild card was instituted), two walk-off one-run losses in the '97 playoffs, Benny Agbayani's walk-ff HR in the 2000 playoffs, the big blown lead in the '02 world series, Jose Cruz's dropped fly in '03, Steve Finley's division-clinching walk-off grand slam in '04.

There's really no way I could've know what I was in for. That means fate chose me. Maybe that's why I seem to align myself with the disappointed, the disillusioned, the disenfranchised. Or at least why I think I do. But whether it's actually the case or not is moot. You are you you think you are. And, more and more, I think I'm a near-miss, a could've been, a contender who always falls short, someone who never seems to get (or make) the big break when they need it. Maybe it's my destiny, maybe it's just the shackles I've applied to myself. Maybe I watch way too much fucking sports, and it's poisoned my brain with well-worn cliches about winners and losers, and curses, and teams of destiny.

But the thing is, life really is just like baseball -- just when you're bitching and moaning about the latest loss, injury, or disappointment, there's another opportunity on the horizon. A new game, a new day, a new chance to do something which makes you (and everyone else) forget the skeletons in your closet. This season's not over, it just feels that way. There's always tomorrow -- a new chance to prove all those diappointments were just the appetizer for an epic meal of accomplishment, or another chance to fail in new and appalling ways. Probably the latter.

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