If you’re paying attention, you know by now that “your” San Francisco Giants swept the Cleveland Wahoos, chalking up their 15th series win this year, against eight losses and two ties (or three, depending on how you count the Cubs).
But on a bright, warm Pride weekend, who’s paying attention to professional baseball, one of the last bastions of institutional homophobia?
OK, the times they are a-changin’ down at Mission Creek. GiantsInc is running ads that promote nonviolence toward gays. Enlightenment to be sure, though on Saturday, the day after the historic New York vote, why no same-sex smooching on the Jumbotron during the sixth-inning break?
The Best of Times
Winning six of eight series so far in June, including one in the Snakepit — pretty good for a team that has scored the fewest runs in the majors. Must be that old Mission Creek magic.
False. It’s the pitching, stupid. The Giants’ pitching staff has given up the third fewest runs in the league. For example, against Cleveland the Giants scored only eight runs in three games; the Wahoos scored four. The team is also first in saves, meaning that’s where the pressure comes down: right on the bullpen, and for the most part, led by Brian Wilson (MVP?), the ‘pen is mightier than the bat. In Wilson’s last 10 appearances, he’s given up only one run.
(This does not mean that if you’ve got a weak heart, it’s safe to go back to the ballpark. In most cases, Wilson’s only got a one-run lead.)
On the other hand, we have to watch the starting pitchers suffer through another attack of the “inconsistencies.” Following Madison Bumgarner’s epic B-rated horror film against the Twins, the best pitcher in the majors, Ryan Vogelsong (who?), extinguished the Twins to lead the Giants back to pseudo-respectability. The next night the Freak returned to the ballpark, having been AWOL for most of June. For all those who keep chanting “let Timmy smoke,” rumors that he has been following your advice and hanging out on the McKenzie River in Oregon cannot be confirmed. Anyway, our prodigal pitcher has come home again. Maybe.
A Spirit of “Pure Joy”
Perhaps it is fitting that the Wahoos would show up on Pride weekend, nestled as it is between MLB’s Civil Rights Day Celebration in Atlanta (where the Mission’s Carlos Santana, an invited speaker, was booed while standing up for civil rights), and the MLB All-Star Game in the Snakepit, despite official Arizona’s race-based propaganda and policy preferences. Who better than Wahoo to remind us that baseball, when played in the MLB, is not just a game?
Nonsense, say the Chief’s defenders (mainly what’s left of the Cleveland Chamber of Commerce, their acolytes and fans who can’t distinguish their youth from other fantasies). Wahoo, they point out, was the brainchild of postwar marketeer Bill Veek (as in “wreck”), who sought a mascot that “would convey a spirit of pure joy and unbridled enthusiasm,” not one that would convey racist stereotypes. To Wahoo’s “tribe,” intentions are more important than words, more important than actions. When Cleveland made the World Series in 1995 (against the “Braves”) and again in 1997, the voices of Cleveland’s other “Indians,” those Native Americans who actually live in the corroded city, were excluded, mocked or both.
The Curse of Chief Wahoo
Some call for a burial of Chief Wahoo not to be politically correct or incorrect, but because they believe that the sins of the symbol will be visited upon the good children of Cleveland, who will never have the opportunity to cheer a champion until they ditch their cruel clown. Far from a friendly savage, Wahoo has turned out to be something of a Trickster.
His capacity for mischief-making was on full display this weekend on the banks of Mission Creek.
Thanks to the Chief, the Giants won two low-scoring, one-run games (of course) on repeatedly weird plays on the right side of Cleveland’s infield. On Friday night, the Giants scored three unearned runs on two singles after a throwing error and a fielding error by first baseman Carlos Santana (no relation to the musician).
On Saturday, one of the stranger innings unfolded after Nate Schierholtz got the best hit of the day, only to slip turning second. Bummed-out fans can be forgiven for failing to appreciate just what Chief Wahoo can do in a pinch. How else to explain Cord Phelps reprising Santana’s foibles, or the balk bringing in the game’s only run?
And was that Wahoo grinning maliciously behind Bumgarner’s brilliant resurrection? Come back any time, Chief. Bruce Bochy has always got a room at his inn for wanderers.
The Worst of Times?
How long can the Giants keep winning series with a spectacular bullpen, unpredictable starters, Dr. Bochy’s Liquid Lineup at the plate and an occasional visit from images that continue to haunt Major League Baseball’s repressed nightmares? History suggests that arms wear down, and that images, even idiotic icons, are even less likely than Jonathan Sanchez to pull the Giants through six innings on a regular basis.
Of course, there are always miracles. For example, this Tuesday night our own postmodern Messiah, Barry Zito, makes his Second Coming (or Third, Fourth or Fifth) to the mound for the Giants. Will his journey through Fresno and the Outer Rings of Hell liberate him from his own private curse (or 126 million curses)?
A bigger miracle would be if he returned not as an unhittable stopper, but as an unstoppable hitter.
Glad to see that you have come to recognize the error of your perceptions. Be not of faint heart.