How About Them Giants?

There’s a feeling of… emptiness as you find yourself laying in bed at 3am watching the same replays over and over. Emptiness, yet so much happiness. It’s incredibly fulfilling what just happened, the Giants winning the world series, but what now?

You watched the Wildcard game at your favorite local bar, Finnertys, a San Francisco establishment… your home away from home. The NLDS and NLCS games you watched there too. When the Giants won the NLCS you had a pitcher of beer poured on your head and you couldn’t have been happier.

For the World Series, you traveled back home to the Bay Area, not wanting to miss yet another opportunity to go to a World Series game. Your family has held season tickets along the third base line (right near the Giants bullpen, for your viewing pleasure). Though you’ve only been to season ticket holder game selection meetings once, you know everyone means business in your section and in your share. You’ve gone to Spring Training for over 5 years now, scouting out the players but more often than not, acting nothing short of a 10 year old little league boy, asking for autographs and stalking the players… and you’re an adult woman.

That’s the thing about your relationship with the Giants. It’s shameless. You essentially ARE that 10 year old little league boy, idolizing your heroes, looking up to your favorite players that you put on a pedestal. You also become some professional baseball scout, picking out players who will make it their big year, heckling players that you just know can do better. You know each players (even the farm prospects) like the back of your hand. These are your guys. Not in the teenage fangirl sort of way.

It’s a shameless relationship. You wear your jersey around with pride, be it in Phillies territory, Yankees/Mets territory etc. In 2010 when the Giants faced the Phillies in the NLCS and you were in college outside of Philadelphia, you distinctly remember being a lone west coast girl among phillies phanatics. In 2012 you fared even worse. In the midst of Hurricane Sandy, you were evacuated from your apartment, without hot water, or electricity for days. You were utterly homesick and contemplated trying to find a flight out of the city. You were miserable. Yet, you found a bright light when a Chipotle uptown (where there was electricity at the time), allowed you to plug your computer in and watch the game. A few days later, you watched the World Series parade on your computer from the NYU Library. Not ideal. In fact, horrendously less than ideal, but it was something.

So now you find yourself in a position where you cannot possibly miss another opportunity to experience your boys in action during the World Series. Your parents, who love you so much and also couldn’t bear to see you miss out again (but more likely are sick of you moaning and groaning about missing out for the past 5 years), let you use their miles to catch a flight home for the weekend. You book. You are pumped.

Game 3 you watch on your couch at your home in California. It couldn’t get better. You are surrounded by family, other Giants fans, in a place familiar to you… and you are watching the World Series. Besides losing that night, things couldn’t have been any better.

Game 4 you find yourself sitting in a familiar place too. Section 126, where your family has held a share for season tickets for years now. One of the fondest memories you have there was when you watched Tim Lincecum pitch Opening Day in 2009 (after his first Cy Young albeit) with your best guy friend.

Being back at the ballpark makes you nostalgic. The smell of beer, sea breeze, relish, hot dogs, peanuts, proliferates the air. You no longer are one of few Giants fans… you are one of many there. You soak it all in. As per usual when you go to a game at AT&T, you get to the park early to catch the end of the Giants batting practice and watch the players warm up. The weather is nice, you are with family, the game, though rough at the start… turns out to be  W. At one point it begins to rain and you have flashbacks of the 2012 World Series photos and video when Marco Scutaro stands in the rain after winning. Your Dad was there that night, he was the one who found it fitting that you should experience that same excitement.

You only expected to catch one of the games at home. To your surprise, you end up with really decent tickets to Game 5. To further your surprise, you end up watching the game less than 10 rows up from home plate. Your excitement is tangible. Joe Montana and the internet famous Marlins man are in your eye line. Kim and Kanye are sitting in the boxes behind you with Barry Bonds. But those are just blips on your radar (except the few times Pat the Bat walks by). You can actually see the players up close. You can actually call Billy Butler a fat fuck and now, he can actually hear you. You can see Madison Bumgarner’s snot rockets from the mound. And it’s glorious.

The game goes perfectly. Bum pitches a complete game shut out. You barely catch the end of the win before jumping on a plane to take a red eye back to New York City. Your plan is to sleep the entire flight that way you can head straight to work well-rested. Instead, you are too full of excitement to sleep the entire flight. You breeze through the work day because, hey, Game 6 is the next day.

For lack of time (and space) we can skip recounting Game 6. I will say, that night I ate my feelings.

The day leading up to Game 7 you were as nervous as ever. Literally, counting down the hours/minutes until first pitch. You find yourself at Finnertys again, among familiar faces (and new faces), averaging about two pitchers of beers per person in your group (you did the math)…. but it was needed. Game 7, as expected was a nailbiter. But something (a wave of calm and relief maybe?) washed over you when Madison Bumgarner came in for relief efforts. Soon enough, you watch the Royals fly out for the final out of the game… the season. Soon enough you find yourself in the air over some odd mans shoulder.

Geniuses who thought to bring champagne bottles into the bar are popping bottles as if it were the Kansas City visiting team’s club house. To your excitement, you are right next to them. You bask in the champagne shower, the bubbly goodness. You are drenched, soaked from the booze flying everywhere, the sweat, but you’ve never felt better. Countless high fives, countless men’s shoulders being hoisted up on pass… and some how (thankfully) you find yourself showered (thankfully, again) and in your own bed.

So what happens now?

Well, what always happens. You slump into seasonal depression. Not that seasonal depression (although Winters in NYC are obviously disgusting)… the off-season depression that inevitably comes when there is no longer baseball games to watch on TV. Your emotions, as the Giants are the only men who ever make you feel anything, go dormant for awhile until Spring comes. When the Cactus League in Arizona starts up again in March, then you’ll get it together again.


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