Tim Lincecum

The news wasn't unexpected, but it's hard to absorb. After struggling to find his pitch for the past couple of seasons and being on the disabled list since June, Tim Lincecum had hip surgery today. He won't pitch again this season, and the likelihood of him appearing again in a San Francisco Giants uniform is dim. He's been a focal point for me since he came up back in 2007, and the thought of not seeing him on the mound or in the dugout leads to a feeling close to grief.

So, what's next for Tim Lincecum? Will he pitch again? For whom? And in what capacity? And if he can't pitch again, or if no team is willing to give him that opportunity, what will he do? Most any other player I can envision in a post-retirement role—a coach, say, or as a front-office guy, maybe a so-called "community ambassador" for the Giants. But I can't slot Timmy into any of those spots. He's a pitcher, a little, lithe, balletic athlete, seemingly a bit shy and self-effacing. Except when he was on the mound, where he dominated.

Maybe all this is premature, and Tim Lincecum will heal quickly and well, and he'll be pitching again next season. Maybe not with the same stuff he once had, but he'll be back, whether for the Giants or another team.  I'd hoped to celebrate the day he retired. Today, I don't feel like celebrating.

Torture, Giants style

Back in the summer, after one of those games the Giants won by squeaking their way into the win column, broadcaster Duane Kuiper said, "Giants baseball—torture!" That boy nailed it. This whole season has been torture for us fans. Consider: During the 2010 regular season, the Giants played in 52 games that were decided by one run. They played in 28 more games that were decided by two runs. And they won 33 times after they entered the seventh inning either tied or behind on the scoreboard. And in the postseason, against the Atlanta Braves, all three games in the series have been decided by one run. All three have come down to the final pitch with the outcome in doubt.

Personally, I need life support. Or at least a brown paper bag to breathe into during the games. I am absolutely sure the Geneva Convention doesn't allow Giants games to be broadcast at Gitmo—way, way too cruel and inhumane for even the most hardened suspected terrorist.

So, before today's game, I did what I could to call forth good spirits and exorcise the torture demons. The Giants won, 3-2, but not before being down two runs and down to their last out in the top of the 9th inning—so torture lives on. Guess it's got to be that way; those guys are at their best when they're waterboarding the rest of us.

Bicycles, baseball, life

At the Public House before Game 1, NLDS

Some weeks ago—seven, maybe eight; I've lost track now—I tripped on uneven pavement while carrying a basket loaded with clean laundry and dislocated some bones in my right foot. The extent of the injury took a while to determine, but it's now clear that surgery is needed to put it right again. In the words of the old philosopher, crap! Meantime, I've been limping around and not able to ride my bicycle because the foot was so swollen. But the swelling has diminished (though not the pain, thus the continuing limp), and this October weather is so beautiful and so perfect to ride in that this morning I said, the hell with it, I'm getting on the bike and I'll pay whatever consequences arise. So, for the first time since Aug. 21, I was rolling again.

And it felt wonderful. Weather warm, breezy from the north, and I took the dump road and had a lovely ride. Saw three hawks, big guys, and two previously quite large but presently very flat coyotes (poor things). I scarcely cracked 14mph, but every mile felt terrific. And the foot didn't bark, and it still feels OK, so maybe I'll make it, after all.

I needed that ride after last night's crushing loss to Atlanta by the Giants. (The injured foot hasn't kept me from going to the games, though anyone who says crutches are glamorous or fun, I want to speak to said lunatic. Especially on BART.) Thursday night's game was such a gem, with Lincecum striking out 14 batters and looking like he could have kept pitching for another hour or so, that last night's game was a HUGE tub of ice water over the head. But that's baseball, and if you want to see the game as metaphor for life, that loss is just another example of how the game is the great leveler; that no matter how high you get with a win, or two, or four in a row, sooner or later the loss will come. The encouraging coda: The wins will come again, too. It's just one loss.

We had a good time, though, hanging at the Public House before the game, meeting new people who are instant friends because, well, hey, we're all Giants fans.

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes, it rains. GO GIANTS! Praying for a win tomorrow . . .

Public House, Game 2, NLDS, with new friends the Blackwelders:

mom Lola, sibs Casey and Jamie

A happy day

Today has been a happy day. Happy as in, I’ve had a smile going all day long and it’s not showing any signs of fading before the day comes to an end and I fall asleep, still happy. What has brought this on? Did I win the lottery? lose 10 pounds? (hah!) hear the Tea Party has been dumped into Boston Harbor? No, something much sweeter and long-lasting—yesterday, the Giants clinched the National League West championship for 2010, and I got to be there to experience and share in the joy. Joy made manifest by a team that all season long has teased, thrilled, and tortured me and all the rest of their besotted fans.

I’ve been a baseball fan all my life, but for much of it, my fan-ishness has been pretty casual—pay mild attention during the season, get to a game or two (or most likely, none), and when the season is wrapping up with the World Series. This year, I’ve been with them all the say, every game, seemingly every pitch—all 162 games.

I know it’s only baseball. It’s a meaningless activity compared with real life and the day-to-day grind. But watching and reading about politics, the horrible, hateful Republicans, Obama’s futile attempts to bring compromise back to governing, war, death and destruction, did nothing but make me anxious and depressed, whereas baseball, though it often makes me anxious and depressed, is, in the end, still baseball—a beautiful game played by talented, spirited, and amazing young athletes who are just a treat to watch and each of whom has his own interesting, quirky, inspiring story.

So the Giants will now play Atlanta Braves for a shot at the National League Championship. I have no idea how this will all turn out, and I have no doubt that there will be torture involved before we’re done. But today was about not thinking ahead. Today was about enjoying being a fan whose team has accomplished what it set out to do. It took them all 162 games to do it, but really, how perfect was that? I hope I get my voice back by this Thursday—I’m going to the first playoff game. And tonight, still, I’m going to bed happy.

Playing by the rules

San Francisco Giants manager Bruce Bochy doesn't get a lot of credit from the fans. In fact, what he mostly gets is grief, and a lot of it. Fans criticize his lineups, his tendency to play veterans instead of younger guys, mock his lugubrious tone when giving interviews, ridicule the size of his head (really, the size of his head? Seriously?), as if he had as much control over that as he does the lineup.

Caught up in the drama of the action on the field, I usually don't even think about Bochy except when he pulls what I consider a bonehead move, like putting Denny Bautista on the mound in crucial innings. I don't think much about the manager at all. But last night's game against the Dodgers was a textbook case illustrating how one manager out-managed his opposing number to get a win. Taking advantage of an inexperienced substitute manager and invoking a little-used (and even less-known) section of baseball's Official Rules, Bochy got the Dodgers' closing pitcher removed from the game, with no warm-up time for the new pitcher before he had to take the mound.

It was classic, it was epic, and it was an education for me. While I knew that managers strategize throughout a game, watching Bochy outfox the Dodger management was a huge eye-opener. Wily, cunning, sharp, take-no-prisoners Boch—you da man! Go Giants! Dodgers suck!

Fruit, fruit, glorious fruit!

A trip to the strawberry stand just west of town yielded not just strawberries but blackberries and cherries, too. And it's a shame this blog doesn't come with scratch 'n' sniff (or even better, taste 'n' savor). The strawberries are incredible—sweet, full of strawberryness. Ditto the cherries and the blackberries, only it's cherriness and blackberriness they're full of. But the strawberries are the piece de resistance. I'd offer you one, but by the time you read this, they may all be gone. (The loquats are courtesy of my friend and neighbor Dave, who invited me to help myself to his loaded tree. They, too, are chock-a-block full of everything that makes a loquat a loquat. Yum.)

No. 24 is 79

In honor of Willie Mays turning 79 today, the California State Senate issued a proclamation declaring him "the greatest baseball player ever." Politicians—always with the hyperbole . . . but Willie is definitely up there in the pantheon. Best thing about it? He still comes to the Giants clubhouse when they're at home, talks to the players, inspires them just by walking into the place. So say hey and happy birthday to the Say Hey Kid! Hope that proclamation is just the first of many kudos you receive today.

P.S. And yes, dear Susan, I do have a life, just writer's block . . .

One down, 161 to go

The Giants won their first game of the 2010 season, defeating the Houston Astros 5-2 in Texas. Tim Lincecum got the win in decisive fashion, Giants got good hitting and defense from the guys, and, right now, all is right in the baseball world.

Tomorrow, of course, is another day and another game. It's a long season, and a good start is only that—a start. Too, too often, these euphoric moments are followed all too quickly by the thud of a four-game losing streak. But today, right now, the Giants are winning. And that feels just fine to me. Baseball is back—woohooo!

Now impersonating an actual ballplayer, your AL pitcher!

American League managers have instructed their pitchers to take every pitch when playing in a National League game. "Take" as in "stand there with the bat on your shoulder and watch the ball as it crosses the plate." Whether this is a dictum only for these final Spring Training matchups or, as I fear, something that will endure throughout the season, I don't know. What I do know is that it's a travesty, a mockery of baseball as it should be played, a disrespecting of the AL pitchers who at least at one time were real ballplayers, and why I HATE HATE HATE the whole idea of the "designated hitter." Bah! A pox on all those AL houses. Shame on you.

Spring's denoument

The Giants compiled an impressive Spring Training record down in the Arizona desert, the best in the Majors. The boys looked good. Hitting had improved. Pitching great. Great vibes in the clubhouse. High hopes for the upcoming season arise! Then yesterday they played an exhibition game at AT&T against the Oakland A's and got—there is no other word for it—clobbered, 9-zip. Starting pitcher Zito looked completely out of whack. Fielding was laughable. Hitting nonexistent, or nearly so—4 hits in 9 innings, compared with the A's 14, including their two dingers and assorted doubles. It was so awful that I did something I thought I'd never do—I turned it off. Couldn't watch, couldn't listen. Dipped back in late in the game to watch the seagulls circle the field. Their calling cards pretty much summed up the whole thing.

True, it's still Spring Training; the season doesn't start for the Giants until Monday, when they play the Astros in Houston. But last night's game was a cruel reminder that Spring Training victories mean nothing. The only thing that counts is the numbers in the win-loss column come Oct. 3. Here's hoping last night's debacle really was just a Spring Training game.

Toys of the times

Twitter account pending . . .

Birthday gift to Addy, my just-turned-2 neighbor

Blues for a Dodger

Willie Davis, 1940-2010

Willie Davis died this past week at age 69, in his apartment in Burbank. A terrific ballplayer who won several Gold Gloves as a centerfielder and who was Speedy Gonzales on the basepaths, his personal demons led him into some dark places both during and after his baseball career was over—a fate that all too often overtakes major league athletes no matter what their sport.

I'm a SoCal transplant and was for many years a devoted Dodger fan. I saw Willie play in quite a few games and listened to many more on the radio. I loved those 1960s Dodgers—Maury Wills, Tommy Davis, and, atop my own personal Mt. Olympus of baseball players, Sandy Koufax—and struggled to stay loyal to them after moving to Davis, but one day realized the team and organization I'd loved had been replaced by something I didn't recognize any longer. And, after spending a couple of years in baseball limbo, embraced the Giants as my own. Now, you couldn't pry me away.

Funny thing, though; despite my now-fierce love for the orange and black, I can't bring myself to hate the Dodgers. Hope to shellack them each and every game, hope to see them in the cellar at the end of the season, boo Manny til I'm hoarse . . . but hate them? Can't do it. No matter what happens as time passes, first love is always special.

Who knew?

Judy (one of the hairdressers who works where I get my hair cut): "You can wear your hair short like that because you have a good skull."
Me: "Really? Gee, thanks . . . I guess . . ."

The sounds of spring

Rain hitting the windows. It's chilly and looks like winter. But not inside; here in my house, it's definitely spring. The voices of Jon Miller and Dave Flemming describing the play-by-play; the crack of bats hitting balls comes through crisp and clear; the voices of cheering fans—music, sweet music to my baseball-starved ears. It's spring training on the radio! The visiting Giants are playing the Seattle Mariners at the Mariners field in Peoria, Ariz. The Giants lead 7-3 in the bottom of the 5th. It's the beginning of a beautiful season . . .

So long, Vancouver

I've spent the past two-plus weeks engrossed in the Winter Olympics, and I've had a fantastic time. Thanks to the twin luxuries of spare time and a new, big-screen, HDTV, I've seen winter sports like never before, and became a fan of way more than figure skating. Like halfpipe, and freestyle aerial skiing, and snowboard cross. And Nordic combined! In fact, all of the cross-country ski events were thrilling to watch—the stamina, aerobic conditioning, strength, and just plain guts are beautiful to behold. I've done a tiny, tiny bit of cross-country skiing, enough to be slackjawed with admiration for those athletes. All of them, all of them . . . the Alpine athletes hurtling downhill at unearthly speeds on two skinny pieces of fiberglass . . . the lugers (and that sad, tragic boy who died before he even had a chance to compete), the bobsledders, the skeleton (too aptly named, in my opinion) . . . curling, such a quirky and whimsical but hugely serious sport that was on TV nearly all the time . . . the skating, of course, figure and ice dancing, always lovely to watch, but didn't this year hold my interest as much as the short-track did, Apolo Anton Ohno with his impish twinkle and his astonishing talent and moxie and the wild and wooly action on the ice . . . The athletes are so fit, so incredibly well conditioned, and they're all amazingly beautiful, healthy, strong; they glow. Inspiring stuff; makes me realize if all of them can train with that much determination and discipline, I can manage to get to my aerobics class at 7 a.m. every day.

And the hockey! I've never watched hockey, never paid any attention to it at all. But this Olympics, I watched a lot of hockey and have become a fan. Where else this side of roller derby can you witness the barely controlled chaos that is ice hockey? Wahoo! Add in the gorgeous images of Vancouver (a beautiful city where I was once lucky enough to ride through on a bicycle trip) and the mountains and water of British Columbia, and all those wonderful Canadians, it was a total treat. I even learned the words to "O, Canada."

Anyway, all this is still swirling around in my head as I gradually come out of the Winter Olympics fog and come to terms with the end of the games. It was swell, I loved watching and agonizing and cheering along with everybody else. And tonight, it's all gone. Good thing baseball starts soon.

Ski shoot

I'm watching the women's biathlon, which in my book contends with curling for the two most peculiar—and opposite—Olympic sports. Curling is silly, but sweet, with teams of people trying desperately to make a "stone" slide farther than their opponents' stones by sweeping the ice in its path. Biathlon, on the other hand, looks to be lifted straight from a 007 vs. Blofeld novel; i.e., cross-country skiing interrupted at intervals by the skier stoppng, unhooking what appears to be a lethally high-powered rifle from her back, firing at a target, then restrapping the rifle and continuing along the course.

There must be some historical reason to justify including both of these, um, sports in the winter Olympics. I feel a Google search coming on . . .

OK, the Norwegians take credit (or blame) for this shoot-n'-ski thing. According to Wikipedia, the sport has its origins in an exercise for Norwegian soldiers, as an alternative training for the military. (Wikipedia doesn't reveal whether this jolly event was ever used in actual combat.) Due to some squabbling over the rules amongst its proponents, biathlon didn't become an official Olympic sport until 1960, and women—those lucky devils!—at last were allowed to compete in 1992.

Further adventures in name- (and also gender-) changing

Christine Elizabeth Terry wants to change her name. So does Daniel Robert Spalding. Christine has asked the court to allow her to be known as Christopher Aaron Terry. While the court is at it, Christine is asking for a decree changing her gender from female to male and that a new birth certificate be issued declaring same. That same day, in the same courtroom and at the same time, Daniel hopes the court will allow him to henceforth be known as Sarah Elizabeth Spalding, legally change his gender from male to female and provide him with a new birth certificate that says Sarah was always a girl named Sarah.

That these two petitions will be heard on the same day may just be coincidence. But I'm kind of hoping that Christine/Christopher and Daniel/Sarah plan to leave the courtroom hand in hand, head straight for for the county clerk's office and plunk down the fee for their marriage license. I'll be watching for the wedding write-up.

Purity polluted

The American League was founded on this date in 1901. Who then could have imagined that, 71 years later, the league's honor and dignity would be tossed onto the trash heap of craven pandering to slugging over strategy when it adopted the designated-hitter rule in 1973. Ben Johnson must have wept in his grave.

What's in a name?

I was perusing the public notices in last night's Davis Enterprise. (You don't read these? Riveting stuff; I recommend them.) Businesses old and new file fictitious business name statements with the county (the Richardson Group/Richardson United is really just Tobin Richardson; a group of one, apparently; and nice to see the Pincushion Boutique is still opening its doors here in Davis.)

But the most fascinating listings are the ones headed "Order to Show Cause for Change of Name." Quite a few people want, or need, to change their names, and to do it legally, they must go to court, get a case number and a hearing date, and run a public notice in the newspaper of record (in Yolo County's case, the aforementioned Enterprise) to alert everybody that, unless someone objects, the bloke they used to know as Joe Smith will hereinafter be known as Joe Jones.

The fun lies in musing on why Joe Smith now wants to be Joe Jones. Last night's paper printed several name changes, and by and large they were pretty straightforward. Joseph Vincent wants to change his name to Joseph Vincent Calabro. Was Calabro a family name that got dropped someplace along the family tree? Maybe Joseph Vincent married someone whose last name is Calabro, and felt the thoughtful gesture would be to tack his spouse's name onto his. Slightly more enigmatic is Earl Thompson's petition to become Ej Thompson. I've never seen "Ej" as a name before and wonder, among other things, how it's pronounced: "Edge," maybe, or perhaps "Eej." "Ej" could be the name of a popular rapper, or have some religious significance. Curious.

What's in a name? Whatever the court decrees.

What They say

They say we're going to get rain. A lot of rain. They are pointing to maps of the jet stream to back up their prediction. Maybe even enough precipitation to cause the Sacramento River floodgates to open, sending excess water into the Yolo Bypass. And, They say, lots of snow, too.

But They have been known to disappoint. The maps, the isobars, the El Nino effect, the historical record—these are the tools They use to make their forecasts. But They are never the Final Arbiter of what, eventually, goes/comes down. Ma Nature always has her spoon in the soup, and She, not They, decides whether it's a good, thick, chunky bowlful or the Oliver Twist special.

I hope They are right this time. I'm hungry for rain.