“Failure is as exciting to watch as success, provided the effort is absolutely genuine and complete. But the spectators fail to understand – and how could they know? – the mental agony through which an athlete must pass before he can give his maximum effort.” — Roger Banister, first to run the mile in under four minutes. From “The Four Minute Mile” excerpted in Lapham’s Quarterly, Summer 2010
Innings One Through Four: Red Dawn
Just another sweltering day. Beginning on the western shore of the now-vanished Lake of Sorrows (Laguna de los Dolores), I follow the flow of Mission Creek down to the ballpark. By the houseboats, a woman wearing an orange SF Giants baseball cap reads Suzanne Collins’ dystopic novel “The Hunger Games.” “New York without air conditioning,” she says.
At the point where Mission Creek empties into Mission Bay, the point where Willie McCovey forever hits homers into the watery future, or past, a family wearing Reds’ regalia sits under a tree eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The father smiles and says all the right things — for the kids’ sake, I suppose. But after last night’s 16-5 shellacking, I will be surprised if the Reds haven’t already boarded their plane for Cincinnati.
Consistently good if not great over the past two months, rookie Madison Bumgarner opens the game like a man applying for a permanent position with The Unreliables, the current Giant pitching staff. Crack! Joey Votto hits a two-run home run into the left-field bleachers. Crack! Jonny Gomes (as in “gnomes”) hits an identical fastball to almost the same seat. Breathe. A conference on the mound to calm young Bumgarner. Crack! Ryan Hanigan hits an identical pitch a few yards over toward centerfield, and the Reds lead 4-0. “It’s the heat,” calls out a voice from behind me in the press box.
Bumgarner gets control of himself in the second inning, but in the third, after retiring the first two batters, the Reds torch him for three more runs, on three hits (no homers), a walk and an error — Bumgarner’s own. His replacement gives up another homer to Joey Votto in the fourth and, completely reversing the last two games, Cincinnati leads 8-1. Maybe it’s the daylight.
Innings Five Through Eight: Mental Discipline
At the halfway point in the game, the Reds lead 10-1. I meet Jasper, a fan from Sacramento who comes by train. He decides to pack it in and catch the early train home. At least half the crowd exits with him.
I would not be surprised if half the Giants have also checked out, mentally if not physically. To keep expending maximum effort on a hot day in what is obviously a losing cause would not survive a rational cost-benefit analysis. Besides, they must be exhausted, having played 22 games in 24 days.
In Far Left, the last row of Section 302, furthest point in the stands from home, the woman wearing an orange SF Giants cap sits with an old friend. She’s put down her novel to concentrate on the game, in sympathy, she says, with the players. I ask why they stay. Her friend, a self-styled “sports Buddhist,” feels the Giants can defy the odds, but only if they can “be here now.”
The stands are three-quarters empty, but José Guillen and Pablo Sandoval have not checked out. Instead of swinging for the fences, they open the bottom of the eighth inning with a pair of singles, followed by Juan Uribe, who does swing for the fences, depositing the ball in the left-field bleachers. Now just two runs down, Cody Ross and Mike Fontenot continue the onslaught of singles until Andres Torres doubles, scoring them both. Two well-hit flies to right field by Buster Posey and Aubrey Huff bring Torres home, and the Giants, here and now, lead for the first time, 11-10.
Innings Nine Through Twelve: Better Red than Dead?
Javier Lopez has been warming up in the Giants bullpen, but with a one-run lead, manager Bruce Bochy decides to go with closer Brian Wilson. As he hurries to ready himself, we tell Brian Wilson heart attack jokes because of his penchant for edgy endings. Two young women help their elderly grandmother to her feet. Leaving, one of the women turns to explain, “She can’t take it.”
Wilson quickly yields the tying run with the aid of an overly ebullient Panda, whose throw to first winds up in the stands. Even Aubrey Huff drops to his knees in disbelief. The Reds finally grab the lead in the top of the 12th, with three hits off Barry Zito, a charter member of The Unreliables, who has to pitch because the Giants have run out of relievers.
In the bottom of the 12th, the Giants have Juan Uribe on third and Mike Fontenot on first with Andres Torres at the plate. Torres is our best bet in these situations. He locks in on each pitch; the crowd, what’s left of it, locks in on him. Will Torres single to bring Uribe home to tie the game? Will he double to bring both baserunners home to win the game? Or will he ground out to end the game?
Cincinnati takes it, 12-11. Text from my friend Joaquin the Red: “Whoa! Whee! Uggggh! Zappp!”
“Om,” grunts the sports Buddhist.
It wasn’t the prettiest game, nor the best pitched, but played on both sides with maximum effort, genuine and complete; a great show.