The Reader
Strange to see someone reading outside the ballpark before a game — reading a book! Yet here she is, before the opening game of the Reds’ series, on the banks of Mission Creek, reading Upton’s Sinclair’s “The Jungle,” a muckraking novel of immigrant life in meatpacking America, circa 1906. Grace, who goes to St. Ignatius, and I comment on the relevance the book holds for today, as the cruder, more violent and vicious forms of American capitalism rise like vampires from their 20th-century graves.
But we’re at a baseball game, Grace, and ballgames were invented by the Lydians (according to Greek historian Herodotus) to distract subject populations from famine. So let’s enjoy what entertainment they have lined up for us tonight. Near the Lefty O’Doul Gate, a sign in chalk on the sidewalk: “Abandon All Hope, You Who Enter Here.”
Is that because tonight is Irish Night?
The Miracle Worker
Since the Mighty Posey went down, the Giants have won three series, lost one and tied one. Stellar pitching, particularly from the bullpen, remains the foundation, even as Tim Lincecum’s Hipster sent a chill down our collective spine when he returned to the mound on Saturday. Otherwise, the team has stayed on top of the National League West with a familiar combination of luck, pluck, duct tape, bailing wire, chewing tobacco and one, or two, or three daily doses of Bochy’s Liquid Lineup! (patent pend.), a miracle cure-all from Dr. Bruce’s secret Mission Bay lab.
Bochy keeps the lineup in a state of constant confusion flux, moving players around like chess pieces — one day Manny Burris is at shortstop batting eighth, the next day it’s Brandon Crawford, batting third. And while Miguel Tejada remains at third base with the Panda on wrist watch, he’s been to almost every position in the batting order at least once. It’s a Bochyean dream team, composed of “castoff” and “misfit” utility infielders, utility outfielders, veterans on the downside, rookies on upside; nobody that good or that arrogant to challenge or resist Bochy’s machinations. Actually, they seem to enjoy it, especially when it produces those dramatic one-run victories popularly known as “enhanced fan appreciation techniques.”
Freddy. Freddy.
But even the best biotech wizardry can’t out-perform Fate. Midway during the second game of the Reds series, Freddy Sanchez dove to his right to corral a ground ball smacked hard up the middle. It’s the kind of play we’ve come to expect from Sanchez, the team’s most valuable infielder. Only this time he didn’t get up. A dislocated shoulder may sideline him for the rest of the season. Not only the Giants’ top infielder, he has also been this season’s most consistent hitter (I agree, an oxymoron). He’s even taken some walks. Losing him after losing Posey means more castoffs and misfits on their way to Mission Bay, more of Dr. Bochy’s Liquid Lineup on the field and more alcohol sales in the stands.
Goodfellas
Watching the boys play ball, even on a night like Thursday when it seemed the ball played them, we are tempted to forget that GiantsInc is a global corporation with a mission beyond fun and games. Fortunately, we have General Manager Brian Sabean to set us straight.
When asked on KNBR what he thought about the hit Posey took, Sabean took aim at the perpetrator, Scott Cousins, a San Francisco citizen. In the season of Bryan Stow, the general manager’s remarks sounded much like a Tony Soprano lieutenant measuring a guy to be outfitted with a concrete suit for a visit to the bottom of the Bay. Did he mean what he said? You betcha. Until the next day, when he didn’t.
We can thank Sabean for displaying MLB’s well-known hypocrisy in such a refreshingly thuggish light: On the one hand, it’s not “sportsmanlike”; on the other hand, it sells tickets. Or we can give Sabean the benefit of the doubt. Maybe from his luxury suite he can’t see the crazies in the bleachers wearing “F&*k Cousins” T-shirts, or he doesn’t read the blogs that beg for retaliation. On the field, of course — like one of the Giants’ pitchers can throw a 95-mph fastball at Cousin’s head, nothing against the law (of The Jungle).
Foodie
Three innings into the game on Thursday night, the Reds score after Madison Bumgarner strikes out Cincy stars Joey Votto and Jay Bruce. Otherwise, Bumgarner pitches superbly, but so does Johnny Cueto, or does the Giants’ dim offense make him look lights-out? A cold night turns freezing. Mike returns to his seat carrying a plate of something I don’t recognize. “Chlli cheese dog.” I am reminded of Sinclair’s description of meatpacking: dead rats shoveled into sausage-grinding machines, diseased cows slaughtered for beef, filth and guts swept off the floor and packaged as “potted ham.” Bon appetit, Mike.
Jungle Juice
By the top of the ninth, the Guiness has been shut off; surliness survives. Ushers throw out two drunken teenagers who can’t stop spewing obscenities. A man in a Mexican lucha libre mask (that he bought you-know-where) insults women, screams obscenities at the umpire and begs Guillermo Mota to hit whoever is batting for the Reds.
Instead of leaving with the crowd, I feel safer ducking into Bruce Bochy’s depressing press conference. When the coast clears, I meet Lou Seal in one of the hallways below the stands. Where do you think all this is headed? Lou shrugs, disappearing into the frigid night.
Despite the cold, monopoly capital, Fate and plates of puke, the Liquid Lineup produces two wins in the next three games, to keep the Giants in first as they head for Phoenix.