Listening to the Giants and walking through the Mission District, where the team first played.
Game One: Giants 4, Rockies 3
Nature roars its tribute to Willie Mays on his 80th birthday. Unrestrained, over-the-top, like the speech by a former president, the Fog Machine blows out thoughts of baseball along with wishes, and candles on Willie’s cake. Mays gives thanks to his fans for coming out “in such weather,” to watch “your” San Francisco Giants take on the Colorado Rockies.
As in Mission Bay, so an unseasonable wind tears through the Mission. Few souls venture out onto gusty Valencia. Those who do are are not thinking about Mays and his birthday. Some say they know (men), some say they don’t (women), some refuse to commit (other). “Go Giants,” I offer. “Go Giants,” they respond.
Like an OG, I’m walking around with The Dog listening to Jon and Dave on an old transistor radio. Shadows blow in and out to ask about the score that slowly mounts in the Rockies’ favor — a Tulowitzki home run here, a single-bunt-wild pitch-single-sacrifice sequence there — and it’s 3-0 Rockies at the end of three.
If Giant bats make any noise at all, they’re drowned out by the cheers coming from the Phoenix as the Mavericks continue trashing the Lakers in the playoffs. “Beat L.A.”
Both starting pitchers, Matt Cain and Ubaldo Jimenez, look like they’re throwing up air balls. They can use the wind as an excuse, but neither will venture onto such laughable turf. Nor would I expect either of them to appreciate the role the wind played in producing Mays’ most iconic moment — “The Catch” — his over-the-shoulder masterpiece shown repeatedly on the Jumbotron by GiantsInc.
What we don’t see as we watch that marvel of timing and grace is the wind holding the ball aloft.
Though wind can sometimes determine a game, it can’t be blamed for the Giants’ incredible lightness of hitting. How woeful are “your” San Francisco Giants in this department? Little Mike Fontenot, an average backup, bats third. No matter. Either the smallest of Giants or the biggest of Midgets, Fontenot ignites the team tonight with a triple and the run he subsequently scores.
Two innings later, two runs down, Nate Schierholtz lines a double to tie the game. Cody Ross and Freddy Sanchez win it in the ninth.
Game Two: Giants 3, Rockies 2
Windblown? Cold? Not at a baseball game pulsing with uncertainty. Ask Becky and Lawrence on 20th Street today. Down at Mission Bay last night, the game was so tense, they barely noticed the tempest.
This evening more of the same: the Fog Machine working overtime, winds whirling around the valley, Mission street as empty as Valencia, and for the most part the bars tune to basketball. From the street, The Dog and I check out living room screens showing basketball, soccer, boxing — and baseball.
Another tight game. Only this time it’s the Giants who score first, with walks, singles, doubles and sacrifices sufficient for a Mothers’ Day weekend. And — this is good news — our prodigal youth (and prototypical hound dog), pitcher Madison Bumgarner, has come home. He has “command;” he has “control;” and he’s backed by a defense that produces four double plays.
In the seventh inning, a Bumgarner “brain fart” (Tim Lincecum’s term for the otherwise inexplicable) of epic proportions: With two on and none out, Troy Tulowitzki rips a ground ball right back to Bumgarner, who picks it up and throws it into centerfield.
Gasp!
Score tied. Threaten as much as the weather, the Rockies don’t scare the Giants’ bullpen: Ramirez, Lopez and Wilson. Even the wind dies down (somewhat) to take note when Aaron Rowand and Freddy Sanchez slap singles to open the ninth. Then Mike Fontenot steps up.
While The Dog and a bulldog smell each other, the bulldog’s owner and I dare to say it out loud: Can the Giants walk off again with a win? Can a guy named Fontenot continue to be an inspiration to height-challenged children the world over?
Game Three: Giants 3, Rockies 0
Sometimes Nature just can’t put a plug in it; for a third consecutive day, we wake up to wind. But this morning there’s sun, even more when The Dog and I make it to Dolores Park, just in time for the first pitch from Ryan Vogelsong, a recycled addition to the Giant pitching staff.
For as long as I’ve known Dolores Park, she’s never been more than a bandwagon fan of the Giants. As a former cemetery, she favors child’s play and the more creative, less competitive, even mildly salacious sports. Like frisbee. At one o’clock, the afternoon shift, still bleary-eyed, begins to settle in: potato salads, PBR, phones, books, signs the Rosicrucians may have been here, a heterosexual couple making out, a homosexual couple reading the Chronicle, a man wearing a Giants hat who can’t stop yawning.
I expect to see/hear Vogelsong avalanched by angry Rockies who, unlike the Giants, are supposed to be good hitters. Instead, it’s the other way around. He pitches a perfect five innings. I also expect to hear/see the Giants reduced again to Midgets by Jorge De La Rosa. Wrong again. De La Rosa, usually a control freak, today isn’t. The Giants get to him in the fourth.
Encountering no pickets and no puke (plastic or otherwise), I buy a couple of tacos from Chaac Mool. Both for me. The Dog mopes under a picnic table until Cody Ross, his favorite player, hits a two-run home run. A good omen for Chaac Mool in Dolores Park? Or is Chaac Mool in the park a good omen for the Giants? I buy a taco for the dog (who does puke later on, but it wasn’t in protest).
Memories swept in, Rockies swept out. Jay and Jason exchange a high-five while Allen and friends put the radio away and pack up to leave.
The wind blows into the night.