On The Agony Of The Giants' Nakedly Marginless Path

"How long, o lord, how long?" -- a lament oft quoted by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.

Had it. This San Francisco Giants fan has bloody well had it.

After last night's pitiable blown save against the toothless-but-for-Adrian-Gonzalez San Diego Padres, we have seen this pathetic pattern play out too many times before our eyes: another game bled away by lack of SFG run support.

Photo Credit: San Diego Padres' Scott Hairston, center, celebrates with teammates Kevin Kouzmanoff, right, and Everth Cabrera after his game winning single in the bottom of the ninth inning gave the Padres their sixth straight victory with a 3-2 win over the San Francisco Giants in their baseball game, Thursday, May 21, 2009 in San Diego. Image via AP.

Last night's result squandered a sterling quality start by the preternatural Tim Lincecum. It feels as though Giants fans must pray to win each game by a 2-1, 2-0, or 1-0 squeaker.

This is intolerable.

The blame for this miserable state of affairs does not fall with manager Bruce Bochy, who is doing the best he can.

The blame for this miserable state of affairs does not fall with the personnel on the team, who are doing the best that they can. Even underachieving 1B Travis Ishikawa, bless his heart, who has not showed any sign that he might possibly blossom into the next J.T. Snow, as the Giants might've hoped he would. And that underscores the glaring problem at hand:

The blame for this miserable state of affairs falls squarely upon the Giants' front office and ownership, who decided that after having built an enviable pitching staff that putting juuust enough players of whatever quality on the field was an adequate move.

It's not.

And anyone taking the most cursory glance at this squad can see this result playing out, game by agonizing marginless game.

Losing games this way kills the fans. You watch your franchise's potential wither and die right before your eyes. It's particularly disheartening.

Now, calling up IF prospect Jesus Guzman as the Giants did yesterday is not an answer. They need players who have already proven their worth. In fact, the Giants could have made a play for the monstrous left-handed slugger 1B/OF Adam Dunn before the season began, but deigned not too. Dunn himself was surprised, according to the Chronicle. And as of today he is tied for third-most home runs for the 2009 season, playing for the dead-last Washington Nationals.

The Giants must stop playing marginless baseball. The "braintrust" must make a move to upgrade the team's offensive firepower as this season drags its recurrent nightmare before the remaining SFG fans. How many more excruciating losses will it take?

How long, o lord? How long?

Photo Credit: San Francisco Giants starter Tim Lincecum winds up to throw a pitch to San Diego Padres' Brian Giles in the first inning of a baseball game Thursday, May 21, 2009 in San Diego. Image via AP.
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Barry Bonds' 756th HR: My View From Center-Left

Originally broadcast on SFist.com, this is what I saw on August 7, 2007.

Well, that was fun.

Last night out in the center-left bleachers, each time Barry Bonds came to bat, the crowd rose giddily to their feet. The stands brimmed with grins and shouts of encouragement and nervous energy. Mitts were pulled on and pounded in anticipation. With each pitch thrown to him, photoflashes flared all about the stadium like Chinese New Year firecrackers.

In his first two at-bats Bonds hit a double and a single. The crowd applauded appreciatively after each. It was far better than seeing the oh-fer-three Barry of the night before. The lead flipped back-and-forth between the Giants and the Washington Nationals as the two pitchers had their offerings slopped all around (and out of) the park.

Then: Bottom of the fifth, one out, no one on, everyone on their feet, all eyes on one man.

Three separate sounds essayed from the crowd when it happened.

At the crack of the bat, there was a beat of silence. A collective breath drawn in. Could it be?

As the ball reached the top of its arc, that intake of air exhaled into an involuntary ohh! The sudden sound of thousands of eyes yanked wide in disbelief.

Its apex reached, the ball tore back down towards the stands in the deepest part of the park. Center-right. The last thing we saw in center-left was the dull white shape jounce off a scrum of humanity that swelled like a sponge to greet its descent. In an instant, the crowd's OHH! became a YaaAAA!

Disbelief tore through to realization. And then we were all jumping and shouting and jumping.

A great burst of laughter! High-fives flew as thick as anti-aircraft flak. It was a great loosing of energy, comparable only to a quake. Shouting and cursing and laughing from all quarters. Shock. People did not know what to do with themselves. It had happened. It happened right now, right in front of us. Strangers hugged one another rib-tight, leaping up-and-down in unison, shouting and cackling in celebration. He'd done it. He'd done it tonight, right now. The heft of this stupid record made people hug each other.

Bouncing, bounding, laughing, we were looking to see our own disbelief reflecting in another witness's glee. Looking to share it with everyone around us. There was a gout of light as fireworks scoured the gray sky above us. No sense of sound. We never even saw him cross home plate. We were busy celebrating what he had done.

But why celebrate? Why celebrate this petulant stand-offish jerk with the strained little-boy's voice? Did he cheat? Prob'ly. He hasn't been caught, but overwhelmingly it doesn't look good.

So, why did we cheer for Barry?

It may be as simple as this: In that moment when we were there with him, wanting nothing more than to see him to hit it out, he hit it out.

Might be as simple as that, at least for last night.

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