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Make Me Crazy Bingo!: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love these Giants

June 11, 2011
by

Someone said to me early this season that it must take a particular kind of mental make up to be a Giants fan.  At the time I laughed and shrugged and didn’t think too much about it, muttering something in assent and leaving it at that and then, well, then this season happened.

I thought of this conversation tonight while contemplating which of the many varieties of alcohol, chocolate, nutritionally devoid foods and terrible-wonderful movies at my disposal I was going to throw at my baseball related despair.  Freddy Sanchez being hurt feels like the last square on my “this team makes me insane dear god why do I do this to myself for six months a year please someone make it stop put me out of my misery oh the humanity” bingo card.  I mean, really.  Lose your star player?  Check.  Lose him for the season?  Double check.  Lose a pitcher when pitching is nearly the only thing you can count on (other than grounding into 42349 double plays)?  Yup yup.  Lose your other star player?  Mmhmm.  Have some of your best hitters slump?  Oh yeah.  Lose your best prospect, after calling him up to replace the void the previous injuries left?  Oh of course.  Lose your OTHER other star player, who happens to be the only guy who has been playing consistently all season?  Kill me now.

You look at all of that and, frankly, I wonder how we’re not all completely certifiable and suing the team for our mental health costs (though I have not ruled out that possibility).  But then, well, we’re in first place.  We are, somehow, miraculously, in first place.  With a negative run differential, for not the first time this season.  We’ve found a new touch stone of consistency and strength in Ryan Vogelsong.  We’ve found a spark of youth and energy in Brandon Crawford.  There have been some amazing, brilliant performances.  There’s been Nate freaking Schierholtz.  There’s been Tim Lincecum’s thousandth strike out and his fourteen strikeout game.  There’s been Sergio Romo’s entire existence.  There’s been baseball, for all the good, bad, ugly, horrific, hysterical, brilliant, beautiful that that means.

There’s 98 games left.  Call me crazy, but I think we’ll make it yet.

Assuming I don’t bang my head through this wall first.

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