It has been a month and a half since last I wrote. The statistics for this site reveal that no one reads what I write. It is, and has been, a resource for documenting my view of this existence in which I was born the eleventh mouth to feed in a two-room apartment in India, moved at two to the United States of America, the youngest of a family of five that disintegrated.
And who then travelled alone for years and lived in Austin, Taiwan, Japan, India, Thailand, Washington D.C., and New Orleans before moving to San Francisco in 1993, to New York in ’97, and L.A. in 2002 – where I fathered a child and was a local radio personality – and back to Japan for all of 2005; India ’06 – ’07 and finally back to Oakland and the San Francisco Bay Area.
Ten years ago, I began to split my time between SF and San Antonio, Texas, where my father – undeniably a great American – wished to die.
Now, five years in the wake of his passing, I write to you from back home in my favorite city, San Francisco, where I am alone.
My eighth trip around the world was embarked upon from here in late 2022 when I spent significant time in Amsterdam and same in Bangkok in 2023.
It has taken me 40 years to free myself of the burdensome garbage I’ve had to participate in – just to be an American.
But now, I consider myself like Tolstoy after the wars, or the young boys of the golden era of dutch painting, wealthy scions of colonists bringing everything from around the world back to Amsterdam. I’m financially stable, experienced, educated and have been writing and making art for 30 years.
I am widely disliked and in 55 years of being in the United States, I never made a friend. What friends I made are no longer friends, and I’m now separated from my family and from my ex- and our child, who has not spoken to me in more than five years.
In the United States now, I am persona non grata for my beliefs first and my behavior in societal situations next. Most people who meet me have no interest in befriending me any more because I reject the society and maintain the uncompromised position that is a thread throughout my life and work. Being true to myself has “cost” me every relationship I ever made.
In a controlled way, and very aware of the audience, I still perform somewhat loudly in public space – coffeeshops, bars, alleys – as I have done for thirty years in the United States, expressing my truths … but now they tire of the “act,” that has been my existence here.
I continue to read in public as well, promoting the act of reading and general intellectual pursuits. I have been reading novels for decades and intend still to write a good one – let’s see.
To most, I am merely an immigrant they can either use or forget.
To me this separation was an inevitable eventuality to my methodology. It is not to be railed against, but to be rolled with and seized for the immense value it has. I have time, resources, abilities I need to let flower. Please support me or leave me alone, thanks.
If you use a website view instead of mobile version, you can see posts here date all the way back to the 1970’s in a column to the left – that’s the archive.
It has only been a dozen years since FB went public. Twitter followed. Then Instagram, then Snapchat and Tik Tok. Facebook went live twenty years ago, but … I never joined.
I’ve had computers, tablets, laptops and PCs throughout all those 20 years but just never opened or posted to Facebook … or to Instagram, nor Snapchat nor Tik Tok … just skipped all these “social media” ones. I didn’t want someone else owning all my content -and the restrictions that come with that.
So instead of posting to social media since 2012 when Facebook went public, I began posting to this blog, I also collected stuff from years past reaching all the way back to 1977 and posted these here, using publication dates corresponding to the archived material.
So I’m the publisher not Zuck or Jack or Elon and I retain intellectual property rights and copyrights.
Please do read and share if you find something of interest here, and credit me, MTK. Thanks.
It’s a narrow but quiet and well-appointed spot just off Union Square on Post. My sixth floor room has windows that open and I can see the back of the immense billboards that surround the square and the bronze woman atop the Philippines War Dewey Monument within it.
Dedicated to Admiral George Dewey, it commemorates his victory in the Battle of Manila Bay during the Spanish–American War. I want to replace it with a massive Foucault’s Pendulum.
The ‘coffee at 8am’ is in a small, cramped area and the guests all stood around trying to get what they wanted from a selection of muffins, bagels, bread-y treats, yogurt and fruit – or created plates to carry back to their rooms. I grabbed a slice of cold bread stuffed with spinach and a coffee and left.
It’s meagre and the coffee is plain, boring. They had oat milk, though – amazing how swiftly that became popular in the last few years. I came back to the room and discovered this is a hotel owned by The Oxford Collection. It is quiet, and tucked away.
It’s the weekend of Outside Lands, a music festival held in Golden Gate Park that I protested when it was proposed. It’s a terrible idea to have drunk, drug-addled youth partying to loud, crazed music sets in that idyllic microsystem.
I have never been and will never go. In any case, of the hundred or so acts appearing this weekend, I have heard of exactly two. I am old and irrelevant to pop culture. It doesn’t interest me either. I use Radio Garden to find new music or vibes. I use playlists that I mix to listen to otherwise.
Speaking of the drunk, drug-addled tech crowd that have ruined San Francisco for a decade, the company formerly known as Twitter, to which we gave the insane tax-break in 2012 that allowed them and Zynga and the rest of these assholes the ability to move here … is now leaving San Francisco. As announced by that ignorant, half-wit Elon Musk this week.
So what was the point?
This town has been made worse, less humane, less sensitive and cultured, less tolerant even, by the social media crowd who came here, used it like a snot rag, and now spit on it as they leave. Good riddance. I will always hate you. Stay away, you ruinous ignorant cunts.
She’s 17 years old. I’m 57. So it’s a May/December relationship.
Last August, I put a search bot on Craigslist with three terms: “manual transmission, high performance, under $10,000.”
On Leap Day, February 29th of this year, after six months of poor responses, I received pictures of Sylvie from San Antonio, Texas. I flew there, and met, fell in love with, and bought her.
Sylvie and I have just completed the 1100 miles from San Antonio, Texas to Sedona, Arizona by traveling in the early morning and at night to avoid the heat.
The highlight of the journey was when Sylvie achieved 100,000 miles on her odometer at 7,000 feet altitude in her 17th Year!
We stopped in Pecos,
Albuquerque
Roswell
and Sedona.
It’s a route I’d recommend and will take again so I’ve named it (PARS).
Here’s sunset on US285 between Roswell and Albuquerque
To this Gate I gave the name of Chrysopylae, or Golden Gate; for the same reasons that the harbor of Byzantium was called Chrysoceras, or Golden Horn.
John C. Frémont, July 1, 1846
——–
On a half empty flight returning to SFO from Costa Rica, in seats 17B and C, Freddy Pico held hands with a stranger. She was in her mid-30’s and trying to get back to Vegas. She approached him at Juan Santamaria International and quietly asked if she could sit beside him on the half-empty, wide-bodied jet, confessing hapless fear during takeoffs and landings.
Her name was Elizabeth and she waited till he was alone. Freddy stood off apart from the others in front of a floor to ceiling window pane.
The harsh tube bulbs overhead were oddly made more stark by the rectangular plastic covers meant to serve as flat sconces. The ultimate effect was that everyone waiting to board, latinos y gringos alike, appeared undead.
Freddy was twisting his body around in front of the window, trying to position himself to actually see – to avoid the harsh glare and make out the fiery volcanic glow of the Poás in the distance – when Elizabeth approached and stammered her request.
Now, twenty years later and 3,000 miles away, standing on Ocean Beach, Freddy suddenly remembered what Elizabeth said during that takeoff, when she death-gripped his hand while their 747 banked slowly out to sea, leaving the ribbon of coastal Nicaragua behind.
She murmured, “I live in the desert because I don’t like change. People who like change need the ocean.”
Freddy remembered her looking up and away awkwardly to avoid any open blinds and the thousands of feet between them and mother earth. Her dishwater brown hair was tied up in a small bun. Her pale hazel eyes jumped to the no-smoking and fasten-seat-belt signs, the personal fan and light, the dull gray of the plastic stowaway bins – anywhere but the windows.
People always asked Freddy to do things like that: hold their hands during takeoff, or mind their stuff while they ran outside to feed the meter. He was easy-going. He wasn’t short or tall. He had a round, welcoming face, warm eyes. His paunch appeared and disappeared, a tide of the seasons, not the hustle of jogging.
The marine layer sat thick overhead. It made everything dark; the sea, the sky, the stone outcroppings in the gate. This contrast gave the sand a clean, beige hue. Freddy saw the boys running around on the sand and tried to implicate them in his flight mate’s analysis of what different people need, from so long ago.
Marcus, the eldest, liked change. Ricky was in constant change. Really, all the kids were.
“Kids,” Freddy thought, “need the ocean.”
“C’mon! Let’s go,” Freddy yelled at the sinewy black shadows running against the gray wall of sky and surf down the beach. He raised his hand when he saw Ricky looking back at him and swirled his finger in a wide circle in the air, reeling them back in. Ricky waved, turned away and chased down the others. Today there were four of them.
Two flying forms blew past Freddy tearing up the long beachhead. He didn’t get their names. Earlier, Marcus showed up at Freddy’s place with these two – brothers, maybe three years apart – easing in behind him. “Oye, Mr. Pico, I told these guys they could come along.” Freddy realized Marcus liked being the gatekeeper – bringing kids from the neighborhood around to his place.
It had started with one of Marcus’s classmates three years before, and today Freddy didn’t know these two brother’s names, but he knew their mother and had seen them around the neighborhood. As long as he knew the kids’ parents, Freddy never asked questions. He just gave as many as fit in his Gran Torino a ride to the beach and back, some fruit, a couple of bottled waters.
“You got towels?” the elder brother asked.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
Ricky strolled up with his shoes in his hand, eyes sparkling and blurted, “Man, the sand’s actually cold!” Freddy turned and looked back for Marcus, whose shadowy form he made out slowly trudging toward them. The fog and swirling sand intermittently swathed him in mist.
Marcus looked up the windy beach and made sure Mr. Pico turned back around before taking out the joint. He had been unable to light it on the beach without it being obvious. He spent a frustrating twenty minutes trying to get it lit before finally giving up.
It was the first time he had ever sneaked a joint on a beach trip and he’d brought matches, which he got free from the goldfish bowl at the hostess stand next to a dish of individually-wrapped, red-and-white peppermints in the foyer of Aldo’s, the Italian restaurant in his neighborhood.
He hadn’t thought about the wind at the beach and only now realized he should have bought a lighter. As a result, he never managed to get an actual hit. He brushed the charred, crumbly bits off the end of the pinner, pinched it and twisted it closed. He slipped it back into his shirt pocket under his hoodie and shell jacket.
As he approached the cement ramp that eased up out of the sand to the car and the others, Marcus felt a sharp spasm of guilt. If he had been successful, he realized, he’d have felt worse. As he approached the big Ford, he feared Mr. Pico would smell it.
Unlocking the doors, Freddy called out ,”Hey guys, dust the sand off before getting in.” Ricky sat on a bench beside the old sedan, swatting the bottoms of his feet with his socks.
“So what’d you think?” Freddy asked the two new boys.
“It’s hecka cold, man!” the younger brother erupted, grinning. The elder boy shrugged. Freddy could see the kid was carrying something heavy all day. “So where am I taking you guys … to your mom’s?
Marcus walked up and interrupted before they could answer: “Just take us all back to your place. We’re gonna walk down to GameStop on the way home.”
The younger boys careened into the backseat, falling on top of each other. They fell asleep before the long, low Ford even hit the panhandle. In the passenger seat, Marcus had his ear buds in, his hood up and his face turned to the window.
Freddy noticed a recent change in Marcus’ demeanor, a posture of urban defiance. Marcus wanted people in the city to see him as East Bay: low-slung and closed-off. But Freddy knew he was drinking everything in, peripherally – Oakland style.
A guy in his mid-20’s with thick, black, designer glasses, wearing a gray scarf around his neck and a long, black overcoat that hung to the knees of his cuffed designer jeans, was standing on the corner texting someone, ignorant that he had the light. He stood just at the edge of the curb, tantalizingly close to stepping off, and yet … not doing it.
An Indian cabbie trying to make a right at the corner, was left hanging. Was the guy going to walk?
The Gran Torino was in the middle lane, paused at the light for traffic, so Marcus’ passenger window was immediately beside the cab and he could hear the woman in the back seat barking in rage at the cabbie to get a move on – unaware he could go nowhere until the guy on the corner either moved or looked up from his I-phone.
The full-bearded Sikh, who filled out the driver’s seat like a massive blue tuber, puffed his cheeks and let out a sigh that emptied his breast and crumpled his shoulders. His turban sank. Marcus sighed sympathetically.
“What’s up?” Freddy asked.
“Nothing,” Marcus murmured, “Just fools in the city.”
The marine layer lay thick across San Francisco as the big sedan slowly edged forward through traffic toward the bridge. The skyline was waist deep in it. The Pyramid, BofA and Salesforce were all masked in gray.
But as they came up on the 101, the gray evaporated. Halfway across the water, the fingers of the marine layer were melted away. Skies were clear over the East Bay and it was sunny; windows with views of the ever-changing chrysopylae reflected the sunlight, peppering the Oakland hills with white dots and shimmering lights.
Freddy reflected on how little the boys knew about the hills, or the city. Their world was the flats of Oakland, and only a few block radius. That was what had inspired him to take these trips to the beach; how it came to pass that Federico Ignacio Pico was the first person to introduce Marcus, Ricky and a half dozen other local kids to the Pacific Ocean.
He enjoyed watching them the first time, approaching the sea boldly, then as they got nearer the waves, more cautiously, until at last they put their toes in the water, yelped with frozen joy and leaped backward.
As his big Ford crept up the onramp to finally enter the bridge, Freddy noticed a man behind the wheel of a little gray sedan in the lane beside him, with an intense look of stress on his face.
“Driven near-blind chasing the cost of living.” Freddy thought.
It’s the same anywhere there’s hills and flats, cities and burbs; where there are people overlooking the overlooked. The hills have treasured views, and the flats get unaffordable rents. But here there’s a treasure in the flats – a glittering gem of silver and gray, blue, brown and green: the San Francisco Bay.
As the crazy, bastard pathfinder noted, at sunset from the Oakland hills: it’s golden at times, too.
The Pacific pours through this ever-changing chrysopylae under Our Lady of Perpetual Suicides. It breathes up the delta and down the South Bay, brackish. There’s continuity. If you stick your toe in Lake Merritt or Corte Madera Creek; San Pablo Bay or the Carquinez Straits, you always feel connected to the Pacific.
Freddy glanced at the boys in the rear view mirror, then tapped Marcus and spoke up to get through his music. “They don’t need to go to GameStop – they’re all crashed out. I’m taking ’em home.”
Marcus didn’t turn to face him, “Yeah, all right.” The bay rolled by.
“What’s the tide doing?”
Marcus sat up, pulled out his earbuds and leaned to look: “hustlin’ out.”
“How’s the chop?” Freddy could see the water, but he feigned focus on driving. Marcus had learned a lot in three years.
“Hella caps … gotta be 20 … well, 15.”
Changing lanes across the wide, gray asphalt of the maze to the 580, and easing into Oakland, the white of the bridge, the cranes and the road stripes shone brightly – it was warm.
“Yo, man, just let me out on Telegraph,” Marcus added.
Freddy nodded and eased the GT through the criss-crossing traffic of the thousands homeward bound.
*******
Barbara Carter rented one side of a duplex in the middle of a typical East Oakland block. At one end there was an empty warehouse building. The other end of the street crossed a busy avenue. The corner had a pizza delivery spot, a bodega, a coin laundromat, a gas station and an eight story, glass and concrete condominium rising above them all.
The units in the condo were mostly 700-square foot studios. The tenants were all unmarried singles who either didn’t have much patience for kids, or feared them. They walked city-fast, headphones in, head down to their phones tapping apps on the way to BART to the City.
The kids had no place to be. The pizza spot had no tables. It was just a stand for delivery drivers, that served $5 gourmet slices to the condo residents. The corner store owner was fascist against kids hanging around his shop. The bodega and laundromat were no loitering zones and the gas station … well, it was a gas station.
The playground for the kids was the empty end of the block with its decrepit warehouse wrapped entirely in barbed-wire fencing. Realtors signs were tied to the woven metal with metal twist-ties every thirty feet, but none of the signs were legible as each had been tagged “Paloma” in sweet, lyrical, Belton Molotow Premium Azure Blue.
Barbara’s duplex was halfway up the block. The houses on either side were all single family homes. She had a housemate, Michelle, who was obliged to pass through a small common space, a foyer, to come and go. Michelle had closed the front door to the foyer and spun to face the street just as Freddy pulled up. Her pony tail whipped around and hit the screen door as it closed.
Seeing it was the boys, she turned, opened the screen door, unlocked the front door, and then, ponytail whipping back-and forth, turned and walked back purposefully in front of Freddy’s car to his window. She leaned in and lowered her sunglasses, shaking her head: “You don’t want to go in there.”
She saw the two sleeping brothers in the backseat. “Aw, look at that! That is so sweet what you do for these kids.”
Freddy smiled, “Whose Volvo ?” He nodded to the black EX-30 parked in the driveway they shared.
“PTA,” Michelle whispered, “They’re saying Eric stole something.”
“Which one’s Eric?” Freddy asked, as he emerged to let the kids out. Michelle helped rustle them to the sidewalk. “This,” she patted his head as she gently nudged him to the curb, “is Michael, he’s eleven. And that,” she said, nodding at the elder brother, “is Eric, he’s thirteen. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Eric murmured, half asleep, half-defiant. Freddy wondered if the kids’ sullen attitude all day had something to do with whatever was going on inside.
“Did you have fun at the beach?” Michelle asked the boys as they slipped out of the big back seat.
Michael turned and smiled weakly, giving a thumbs-up, then continued after the slinking figure of his brother toward the front door. Michelle gently patted Freddy on the back, “Good to see you Freddy, I’m telling you: Stay out of it.”
She crossed the street to her Honda and Freddy watched her start up and pull out, before turning to the duplex. He had already dropped Ricky off and, since Marcus had gotten out at Telegraph, this was his last stop.
The door to the foyer was ajar, and he could see Barbara inside as he walked up and heard her: “Oh, good. Come in,” as he waved through the screen door before swinging it open.
“Have you got a few minutes, Freddy?”
Michael and Eric’s mother was a formidable woman. She stood nearly six feet in heels and was thus slightly taller than Freddy. She had dark skin which gave her form broad, statuesque features. She stood in the entrance to the kitchen and didn’t move nearer the door as Freddy entered.
Eric was standing at the front of the living room, between them, head down, staring at his shoes. There was no sign of his little brother. A man and woman were seated on the couch. Freddy did not recognize them. Both rose when he entered.
Barbara quickly added: “How was the beach? Were they good?”
Freddy glanced about. Michael had dragged himself off someplace.
“They were great. We had fun.”
Eric stood in front of a big, flat, wall-mounted monitor. When on, it dominated the small, neat living room. Off and silent, the monitor created an immense black backdrop for Eric, who looked even more isolated as he faced the interrogation taking place.
Barbara walked across the room to Eric’s side: “Well, I’d love to hear all about your first trip to the beach, but unfortunately, we’ve got to address a problem.” She took her place behind him, supportively, and put her arms on his shoulders before turning to the others.
“This is Mr. Pico. He took the kids to the beach today,” and, turning to Freddy: “This is Lynn Chen and Paul Wallace, with the PTA.”
There was a low, round table in front of the couch, and the two stepped out and around to greet Freddy. The Asian woman seemed to be Chinese, but Freddy couldn’t tell her direct heritage. She wore a simple black dress, with white shoes and a simple medium length string of pearls. She put her hand out confidently, “Nice to meet you, I’m Lynn. Are you the boy’s guardian?”
“The boy,” Freddy thought, as he shook her hand before replying, “Oh, no-” but Barbara interrupted:
“No. He’s a neighbor.” She stopped full then added, “and a friend.” There was tension for a half second before Barbara turned to Freddy, “But I may need you in a professional capacity.” and then to the others, “Mr. Pico is a police officer.”
Freddy let go of Lynn’s hand, shaking his head, “No,” he demurred, as he turned to the tall man with thinning brown hair and glasses beside her. Middle-aged, in brown slacks and a beige blazer over a rumpled but clean, white-collared shirt, he looked a little lost.
Freddy continued, “I’m a graduate of the Oakland police academy, but I’ve never served as an officer.”
“Ah.” the tall, clumsy man said, noncommittally. “I’m Paul. Paul Wallace.”
Freddy explained, “They needed bilingual candidates and I signed up, but I was in the graduating class after the budget cuts. There were limited positions, so I deferred.”
As they shook hands, Paul nodded vigorously, approving, “I see, I see, well …” He was the type that trailed off. Freddy wondered if it was because Wallace was often in rooms filled with opinionated parents. Freddy imagined he’d grown accustomed to being deferential at the PTA.
There was dead air as they continued shaking hands and staring at each other. Seeing Wallace wasn‘t about to say anything else, he continued: “Please, call me Freddy.” He turned to find a place to sit. Barbara took Freddy’s arm, “What I meant was we may need your services as an investigator.”
There was an empty armchair to the right of the couch and Freddy took it as Paul and Lynn returned to the sofa.
“Yeah, they needed either Chinese or Hmong or Tagalog speakers so I gave up my spot.”
The tone in the room, unreeled carefully by Eric’s mother, had shifted with Freddy’s arrival. She now asked, “Would anyone like coffee?” and to the general lifting of mood and nods all around, “Great, just give me a second. Eric, honey, why don’t you come help me?”
“Terrible business, this … ” Paul muttered, trailing off.
Lynn looked to Paul but was obviously used to him, because she waited only a brief, perfunctory moment – it was like she was staring at him counting to some number in her head; a limit – before she shook her shoulder length hair and turned to Freddy to take charge of the situation.
“I think the boy’s involved with whoever has taken a valuable sculpture from the grounds. They melt them down and make good money – it’s happened before.”
“They,” Freddy thought.
“Now, Lynn,” Paul was used to this role, already back-tracking, “Slow down. Until there’s some clear-cut evidence, we shouldn’t go accusing …”
“Until,” Freddy thought.
Not knowing what else to say and eager to turn to someone else, Paul looked to Freddy, “Honestly I didn’t want to come …”
Lynn stopped short and looked at him, wounded, as he continued, “The police came when we reported it of course, but they have no leads or …,” his voice disappeared again into thin air. Then he started fresh, “The District will be conducting our own investigation,” and then he paused again, before muttering, “but perhaps you could be … of some … “
He was like an engine that just won’t turn over. “Well, I’m happy to do whatever I can for Barbara and Eric,” Freddy replied, “But I’d be working on their behalf. We’re neighbors.” He paused and looked at Lynn, “And friends.”
Lynn, visibly exasperated by the sudden appearance of someone even less allied to her views than Paul, realized she had to be diplomatic, “Well, it’s just we need to act fast because whoever’s got it is going to melt it down and turn it into cash as fast as they can. They’ve got to get rid of the evidence. And I think that boy,” she said, pointing at the kitchen, “knows where our Cooper’s Hawk is at this very moment.”
“Hmm, well,” Freddy said. “I can tell you I spent the day with Eric and his little brother, Michael, and they were great on our outing.
“I began giving kids from this neighborhood monthly rides to the beach a few years ago-”
“Oh wait-” Lynn said, “I’ve heard of that.”
“of that,” Freddy thought, before continuing, “Different kids, and if there’s room, some kids come back.”
Lynn smiled and sat back. Paul nodded vigorously, incapable of an appropriate response. Freddy let them off the hook:
“So this is one of the bronzes in that series the school commissioned last year? The Cooper’s Hawk is just one, right? of several that depict native flora and fauna reproduced in bronze?”
“That’s right,” Lynn responded, “I was on the selection committee. It’s an important work. We can’t have elements of it just walking away-”
The need for increased security for the remaining statues hadn’t struck her yet and she interrupted herself, trailing off, “The other statues …”
Barbara returned with a coffee pot and a tray with cups, which she set on the low table. There was creamer in a small, cylindrical metal pitcher with a hinged lid and spout and brown sugar in a crystal bowl with a spoon, rather than lumps. She poured Freddy a cup, handed it to him, then poured coffee into the remaining three cups on the tray and took one for herself. She gently added a dash of creamer. Paul and Lynn quickly and mindlessly did the same, as Freddy continued:
“Those statues are installed along the creek, I believe. But I’ve noticed the Cooper’s Hawk has a vulnerability in its design. At the point where the legs meet the branch, the metal’s quite thin. It has delicate talons.”
Freddy’s crisp, direct investigative approach silenced the room. The quiet unassuming fellow who strolled in like the driver or sitter was gone. In his place, a shrewd and observant local emerged. He took their silence for agreement and pressed on.
“So that’s the weak point. But it’s installed at some height, I believe.”
“Yes, that’s right,” answered Paul, “It’s meant to be seen from the ground at rest on a branch, perhaps like it’s hunting for mice. It’s probably fifteen feet up there.”
“So how did the thief get up there unseen?” Freddy continued.
“That said, it would’ve been pretty easy to break the sculpture off the branch at the thin point near the talons,” he paused, “Once you were up there – you wouldn’t need a torch.” Freddy looked directly at Lynn, “A child could do it.”
Lynn sat back smugly and listened to see where this was going.
“When was it taken? Who first noticed it missing?”
Paul replied, “It was discovered missing by a student and his father who bike the creek to school together. They noticed it on Saturday, on their way to the farmers market. The father called me to report it. So …”
Lynn interrupted more quickly this time, “So it was taken sometime Friday night.”
“Or early Saturday morning,” Freddy concluded.
Since his mother had taken her coffee cup to the other armchair opposite Freddy, Eric looked even more isolated, standing, awkwardly, staring at his shoes.
Freddy turned to him, “Eric, do you know anything about this?”
“No.”
Lynn sat up straight with alarm, “There are a group of kids who hang out together every afternoon. They hang around the campus and they … they …” she sighed, constrained by language, “they get into a lot of who knows what?
“I’ve been told for seven years now as my kids grow up in this neighborhood that we don’t use the word, ‘gang,’ because it’s inappropriate and stigmatizing, and in fact, ” she quickly turned to Barbara before continuing, “I agree with that, I do. But we need to admit we have at least one group of kids that hang around only with each other and roam about doing mischief.”
Barbara looked as though she might explode in reaction had she not immediately stood, taken a large deep breath and returned to her son’s side. Instead, she asked simply and slowly, “Do you have some specific evidence against my son? Or are you singling him out for hanging around campus after school with his friends?”
“We’re not singling him out,” Paul countered, “We’ve sent parent/teacher pairs to each of the other parents, too. So we’re not … ”
Lynn again jumped in, “On Friday afternoon, Eric and his friends were seen not just hanging around, but standing under the Cooper’s and throwing rocks at it. There were a whole lot of kids who saw them. They said they probably knocked it off the branch with a rock and took it. We’re following-up on what the eyewitnesses-”
“Eyewitnesses?” Barbara retorted, “To what?”
Freddy spoke up, “Eric, were you and your friends throwing rocks at the Cooper‘s Hawk statue?”
Eric shifted weight and looked at Freddy, “Yeah, we were trying to hit it.”
“See?” Lynn spat triumphantly.
Freddy put his palms out, face down, and patted the air between them, saying gently, “Hang on, now.” He turned back to Eric, “You didn’t knock it down?”
Eric sniffed, “No way,” he shook his head, “It’s bronze. I mean we were just throwing tiny little rocks …”
Barbara turned to Lynn sternly: “So you interviewed a bunch of little kids who wouldn’t know a bronze like that can’t be knocked off a branch by a pebble and that’s why you’re here?”
“Do you know how bronze statues like that are made, Eric?” Freddy asked, in part to ease the tension.
“Um, no.”
“Well, the metal is liquefied and poured into a form, a mold. The mold is made out of a material that’s sustainable.”
Eric listened and shrugged.
Freddy turned to Lynn, “Which means the artist can reproduce the work, right? I mean, they still have the forms for each of the pieces.”
Lynn Chen was not pleased with the direction this was going. “That’s not the point-”
Freddy continued, “I’m not sure on what criteria you made your decision on this project … delicate bronzes in public space? and he paused, “but I guess it’s a good thing you can secure a replacement.”
Lynn stared at him coolly. “That’s true.”
“And maybe the artist can strengthen the point of contact,” Freddy continued, “or make the work more secure somehow,” Then he shook his head, “But I just don‘t think Eric here would have any idea what to do with a bronze to make money off it. Can’t speak for his friends …”
He turned to Paul: “Can I get a list of the other parents whose kids are involved?”
Paul shifted uncomfortably, “Oh. Well, see. You understand, Mr. Pico- I mean, you’re not even a parent. It’s just not something …”
This time it was Barbara who seized the empty space of Paul’s indeterminacy. “I’m going to get on the phone tonight and find out what’s going on.” She turned to Eric and said, “Honey, I know you must be tired and sandy. Why don’t you go up and take a shower and get ready for dinner?”
The gratefulness in Eric’s eyes belied no trace of guilt. He turned and ran. “Make sure Michael gets cleaned up too!” Barbara shouted at the shrinking form of her eldest son.
Lynn sat back on the couch as if to fix herself there and crossed her arms. “We need to ask him what he was doing with those kids on Friday afternoon. Did he go back to the campus later that night? Where was he Friday night, Mrs. Carter?”
Freddy interrupted, “I’ll talk to Eric. I’ll ask him about it.”
“Right.” Lynn was skeptical, “and you’ll tell us if he and his friends did it?”
Freddy replied, “It doesn’t serve my business reputation to cover up crimes. If there’s more to discover, Barbara and I will let you know.”
Barbara stood to imply the meeting was over. Wallace stood immediately thereafter. Freddy slowly rose and gestured, and finally, begrudgingly, Lynn stood to shake his hand.
As they left, Freddy remarked, “I think you’ll find kids’re more forthcoming to their own families. You really ought to let the parents of the other kids talk to them first. I’ll be happy to help.”
Lynn softened, “If it wasn’t Eric, I’m sorry. I just feel we have to hold the kids responsible for their campus.”
Barbara spoke more gently as she walked them out, “I don’t want to believe he’s involved in this, but if he is somehow, I promise you, we’ll get to the bottom of it and Eric will take responsibility.” She shook hands with Paul and Lynn once again on the porch, a considerably more amicable air between them.
*****
Freddy pulled into the driveway and noticed his housemate wasn’t home. Raj had a separate entrance and the porch light over his door was on. His bicycle, usually locked up on the side of the house, was gone. Freddy went in and turned on the radio. The evening news had just begun.
Before they left for the beach, Freddy had left a filet of wild caught salmon to thaw in the refrigerator. He pulled it out and a shallow dish, which he sprinkled with salt. He squeezed half a lemon into the dish and laid the fish in it, flipping it so both sides absorbed the marinade. He let it sit covered as he filled and set the rice cooker.
He pulled a head of broccoli out of the refrigerator, cut and washed some florets and tossed them into the inner vessel of a range top steamer. He found two carrots in the crisper and diced them in.
Then Freddy pulled down a pan, set it on the range and drizzled it with avocado oil. He turned on the burner, and when the pan was sufficiently hot, set the fish inside, pouring the excess marinade from the plate on top. In a few minutes the aroma of the salmon filled his flat. He flipped on the fan in the hood and turned to peel and dice a chunk of fresh ginger which he tossed in with the fish.
Freddy drew a bottle of white wine from his makeshift stores: a cool, dry cupboard under the stairs that led up to Raj’s flat. It was a 2011 gewürztraminer from Navarro he’d bought the previous month, when he passed through Anderson Valley on the way home from a fishing trip to the North Coast. He uncorked the wine, poured a glass, then flipped the cork, reinserted it into the bottle and put it in the door of the fridge.
Sipping the gewertz, Freddy turned the fish and peeled back the skin, stir frying it separately in the edge of the pan. He diced a serrano pepper and tossed it in with the bits of skin at the edge of the pan. In the end he’d add the spicy, crispy, fried skin to the cooked rice. Freddy poured a shallow amount of water into the outer vessel of the steamer, put it on another burner and waited for it to boil. Then he gently set the inner vessel into the steamer and closed it.
Freddy’s cel rang. It was Raj. He answered: “Hey man, I‘m making fish and rice if you’re hungry.”
“I’m good,” Raj replied, “Meet me for a drink after.” Freddy agreed and stabbed at the face of his phone with his little finger to hang up.
The rice was finished. He removed the lid from the cooker and flipped the salmon skin up into the rice with the spatula. He broke up the filet in the pan to reveal the bones, then plated the rice, vegetables and half the fish. He turned off the burners, put a lid on the remaining salmon, refilled his wine glass and took his plate to the bar in the living room to eat and listen to Minds Over Matter, the radio quiz show.
He called in to answer but his guess was wrong. It was Margaret, queen consort of Malcolm III who was “first to cross the firth at Forth.”
*****
The lights of the logos for Walgreens at the corner of Telegraph and 51st had the ‘W’ of the scripted neon blown out for years. So it said “Al Green’s” for so long that’s how people liked it. The Ethiopian manager was down, so he let it be. Tricked out strip mall lighting and rolling graffiti are often misread as blight rather than culture.
Marcus strolled in under the watchful gaze of the security guard by the door. The older African recognized him as one of the neighborhood kids, knew he didn’t steal and gave him a head nod and a big smile. He wanted kids like Marcus to like him.
Marcus went straight to the counter and asked for a black Bic. He tested it with a flick, like he’d been taught to do by the kid who gave him the joint. He paid for the lighter and took it outside where he peeled off the white adhesive warning label and tossed it in the trash can on the corner. He fingered the joint in his pocket and looked down the block.
He walked to Bushrod park and found a stand of trees set off away from the playground. He stood under an oak, alertly looking around for cops or nosy adults as he lit the joint. This was only the third time in his life that Marcus had ever smoked weed, and it was the first time he was doing it alone. He coughed and struggled to hit the joint. A thin, twisting line of whitish smoke drifted upward from the tip. After just a few tokes, his mind went blank. He stubbed the joint out against the trunk of an oak, twisted the end closed again and dropped it back into his pocket. In the waning glow of twilight he wandered out of the park toward home.
*****
Barbara could see the boys were exhausted. After nodding slowly over the course of dinner, little Michael finally just fell asleep in front of his plate. His chin rose and fell on his chest as he snored lightly. Beside him, Eric was just staring into his remaining food, stirring what was left of the vegetables.
During dinner Barbara had exchanged texts with most of the other parents. Sunday evening was precious relaxation time for all the families. They collectively agreed – through a quick series of texts – to put the kids to bed and discuss the missing Cooper’s Hawk by email, or when convenient on a call, within a day or two.
“You guys must have had fun,” Barbara said quietly. “Go ahead and take your brother to bed, Eric. I‘ll come and tuck you in after I clean up.”
Eric woke Michael up with a nudge and the boys headed off to the room they shared. Barbara cleared the table, brushed the leftovers into the organics, rinsed the plates and loaded them into the dishwasher. She wiped down the table and countertops and put her smaller kettle on for tea.
Checking the time, she calculated so she could program the television. She started a Netflix show she’d saved, then paused it. Then she scheduled a new episode of her favorite show on HBO to interrupt when it was due to begin later that evening.
She went to tuck the boys in, but found them both passed out on their beds with the desk lamp on. Percy Jackson’s Battle of the Labyrinth lay splayed open across Michael’s chest. Barbara picked up the novel gently, grabbed a baseball card from the bedside table and used it as a bookmark. She set the book on the table and gave Michael a kiss. Then she drew the blankets across her two beautiful sons, turned off the lamp and left them to their dreams.
The Westermoskee – in Turkish Ayasofya Camii, and English, the Western Mosque – is a blissfully serene, Ottoman-form mosque built in a Neo-Classical style along the canal Schinkel in the Schaasebuurt in De Baarsjes in Amsterdam West – a calm, quiet neighborhood.
Wiki tells us: the building was designed by French traditional architects Marc and Nada Breitman, winners of the 2018 Driehaus Prize and part of the New Classical movement.
Construction started in 2013. the building was completed in 2015, and the mosque unofficially opened in Spring of 2016. It is the largest mosque in the Netherlands. Features of the Ottoman style are the single minaret and large Ottoman styled main dome.
The Giants are having an historically terrible year. So it seems a good time to end this project and call it an archive.
Thank you for reading Giants Baseball Corner and engaging with me these seven years from August 2010 to August 2017. It has been a lot of fun.
This site‘s now my archive of the San Francisco Giants during their historic run to three World Series Championships in five years. It was an incredible time to be a Giant fan – filled with relief and joyous wonderment.
Every word, image or thought herein was produced by M.T. Karthik, your MC and host.
14 games back of Colorado, 3-7 in last ten games, road trip ended in Milwaukee with an extra innings win last night and home stand starts today against the surprising Minnesota Twins.
Since we last left you dear reader, Hunter Strickland decided to unilaterally employ the unwritten rules – on a two and a half year old personal grudge – and hit Bryce Harper square in the hip with a 98mph fastball in a two-run game we could have won.
A lot was written and said about it, but this piece by Jamal Collier at MLB is pretty succinct and without bias.
I was disappointed in Hunter, but since it happened I’ve cooled off. Maybe it was done at the exact right time – a ‘meaningless’ game in June with exacting precision to the hip – even Harper called the right way to do it.
I find the unwritten rules cool only when the whole team seems into it. I was with Buster on this one and I cannot believe the people who suggested he should have intervened. The guy just came back from a heater to the head!
But then last night, in a game that really felt like a turnaround game, Strickland came in for the first time since the incident and was scary and dominant. Made me wonder if maybe we need a guy like that.
The Giants picked up Sam Dyson from the Rangers, and while Brisbee’s not crazy about him, he details the thinking behind picking him up.
The last ten days have been promising for the G-men. We took 3 of 4 from the Nemesis at the Yard! It was great. Kershaw beat us and Cueto got a little hot under the collar, resulting in a bench-clearing kerfuffle, but it was great to #BeatLA again.
We had a 17-inning game that ended on a Buster Posey walkoff HR! Around the Foghorn’s Vince Cestone ruminates it could be the game that turns things around.
Stat Man Doug Bruzzone has two pieces on our pitchers and our hitting that are interesting.
Barry Bonds is Finally Getting a Plaque on the Giants Wall of Fame
Brisbee’s take has a complete list of those honored and this gem: “If you’re agitated by the Belt Wars, you have no idea what it was like to live through the Great Snow Conflicts.”
While Haft has some nice, clean history and stats of the greatest power hitter to ever play the game (the GPHOAT) up on the Giants site.
Pence went on the DL and the Giants called Mac Williamson up. But he hasn’t done much yet. Christian Arroyo has been the star of May thus far. The rookie was called up and immediately brought fireworks and a clutch bat that seemed to juice the team. He needs a nickname and I prefer Spanky, case he looks like Spanky from Our Gang, but I am old, so it looks like the memory-less Millennials are gonna settle on The Kid or Boss Baby.
Opening day in Phoenix was a massive, thick-beamed wood rollercoaster ride built by Madison Bumgarner that went off the rails in such a familiar manner it felt sickening – or for the less dramatic and more experienced fans, like typical Giants baseball.
During the frustration, I got into a Twitter discussion over the use of the word ‘torture’ to describe Giants baseball.
We all fell in love with Mike Krukow’s term in 2010 because it felt like a pure assessment of the near-misses that made it up: the earthquake, the 100 win season fail, the Angels in ’02, Pudge in front of the plate.
But personally, the torture I felt for 30 years was washed away by the immense wave of relief I felt on November 1, 2010 when we finally won it all for the first time in SF.
Giants fan Ted G, 57, disagrees. For him, SF Giants baseball is uniquely agonizing across decades win or lose. He thinks Krukow’s phrase, “Giants Baseball … Torture,” is emblematic of our pathos as an organization and the struggles we eternally endure.
“The term torture has nothing to do with not winning. Totally about how they go about creating situations that are torture.” – Ted G, @TedSFGman
I can see that, but whatever remnants of the feeling of torture that may have remained for me were certainly washed away by winning the way we did in 2012 – my favorite of the championships. We had to retire Melky Cabrera. Pablo hit 3Hrs – two off Verlander – and Romo dared and won with an incredible fastball to end it with Miggy looking.
Madison going out there in 2014 and ripping it away from the Royals cemented my feeling that we have earned well-deserved titles, establishing a kind of dynasty in an era when the back-to-back World Series championship has disappeared.
There hasn’t been a back-to-back World Series Champion in the 21st century. So for me, this ain’t torture any more, it’s working the details.
But enough about torture, lets get to
The first GBC Reader of the year:
It was a rough game because of the blown saves, but being opening day on the road, it really shouldn’t matter that much in the face of what Madison Bumgarner accomplished: the first pitcher in the 140 years of this game to hit two home runs on opening day put himself in position to win twice before the bullpen’s struggles came to bear. It was epic and #TheLegendofMadBum continues to grow.
Brisbee noted that Bumgarner was also the first Giant to hit two dingers on Opening Day since Barry Lamar. And Grant’s coverage of the debacle it became is actually considerably temperate – I think fatherhood is mellowing him out.
MLB dot com Columnist Joe Posnanski has some really excellent things to say about Madison’s performance, really putting the scale of MadBum’s audacity in nice perspective. He includes Statcast data regarding the speed of these HRs that if you haven’t checked out yet, you gotta see.
Haft chose to focus on MadBum’s dominance on the mound. Man, did he look good.
I didn’t really have time to make this great, but hey, it’s the first one of the year. I’ll add some links later if I find more content.
I also apologized on Twitter for rage tweeting the value of Mark Melancon’s contract excessively yesterday. I am sorry. It was petty lashing out at the collapse and an irrelevant memory of last year that fueled my rage.
Which brings us to Jake Mastroianni’s piece about everyone who overreacted to the opening day loss.
The second half has been very much like a root canal but at last, the playoffs are around the corner and the Giants have just a little more work to do to ensure we’re once again in the postseason in an even year this decade.
All Giants fans are of course confident that if we just get in we can go on an epic tear with our postseason roster, as we have done in each of the last even years this decade.
That confidence resides within all of us but was best phrased in all caps by Grant Brisbee in 2012 before the World Series vs. the Tigers. (You can’t spell Brisbee without S-E-E-R).
But today and this weekend the pathway is clear:
Beat LA and Seize The Division.
It is a pleasure to beat the nemesis, but certainly it means the most when there’s the postseason on the line and we handle business. I really hope we show some force this weekend and seize the wild card – a sweep would be sweet.
I still believe we can do this despite not having a closer, or even a bullpen I trust. Because I believe we do have Champions Blood. When the chips are down, we got as good a chance as anyone.
If we end up playing the Mets, as I think is likely now, I am starting to wonder whether we should start Cueto rather than Bumgarner … which seems crazy to type, but there it is.
Samardzija out of the ‘pen might be a thing we see this weekend and in the postseason, which also seems crazy.
But we gotta win one at a time, so for right tonight, I am dressed. Let’s get it on!
The best first half in the majors and the second-worst second half in the majors sums to the most important home stand of the year with twenty games to play.
Seven games: three against the Padres and four against the Cardinals who are outside looking in and trying, with the Mets, to pry us from atop the National League Wild Card standings.
The difference between eking out the Wild Card and seizing the division from the nemesis lies in these next seven games. We have to take five.
We were happy in June. This team looked built to make the run. The pieces all made sense and our record was the result of beautiful play. We were happy because we won without Pence, Panik, Duffy and Romo. If anything we were enthused because we knew we’d have them all back healthy for the stretch run. The pain of last year when all the injuries hit in August was fresh in our minds. (To be honest we’ve been pretty lucky in that regard).
Johnny Cueto tore it up and started the All-Star Game. We voted Belt into the summer classic with vigor. Cain and Peavy were mostly bad, but it didn’t seem to matter. Until he went down Romo was a great set-up man for Casilla who collected the majority of his 31 saves and looked like he could be the closer. (That team still exists).
Then this epic collapse of hitting and failures in the bullpen in the second half necessitated re-engineering the rotation, forced us to deal beloved Duffy.
I for one fully support what I think was swift and bold decision-making by Bobby Evans, Brian Sabean, Larry Baer, Bruce Bochy and staff. We had to do something quick and if we didn’t pick up Matt Moore, I am not sure we would even have a chance right now. Add to that the success Eduardo Núñez has had at third and at the plate, and I’m more than pleased we made the deal.
If we have to play the Mets or Nats in the play-in game I am confident we can send out MadBum and have a great chance to win. But thanks to the trade, I now also feel, with Cueto starting against the Cubs, then Samardzija/Moore and back to Bumgarner, we actually have a shot to beat the league leaders, to win the NLCS.
The Giants are due to play better. Maybe they weren’t actually the best team in baseball when they ended the first half with a better record than the Chicago Cubs, but clearly they’re not the second-worst team in baseball.
Baseball teams are streaky. While the Giants’ extreme splits are abnormal, a bad stretch doesn’t necessarily predict more losing. They’re just as likely to go on a nice winning streak now. That’s baseball.
The Dodgers play 13 of their remaining 20 games on the road, and they’re 47-27 at home and just 33-35 on the road.
The teams have six games remaining against each other, including the season-ending series in San Francisco.
Hunter Pence is hot, with eight hits in the Arizona series. Buster Posey is due to get hot as well, right?
Strickland, if he does win the closer’s role on a regular basis, will be fine. He has a 2.41 ERA in his major league career and has held opponents to a .202 average (.213 this season). He has been the Giants’ best reliever over the past two seasons. So why has Bruce Bochy been so hesitant to name him the closer? It probably goes back to the 2014 postseason, when Strickland, with just seven innings of big league time, allowed six home runs in eight appearances. It’s tough to trust a guy in close games after seeing that, but Strickland is a solid reliever and has earned the opportunity. (As a bonus, rookie Derek Law, with a 1.94 ERA and excellent peripherals, is due to come off the DL this week.)”
Which brings us to the biggest home stand of the year.
Our biggest concern is a big one: the bullpen is a mess. Our second biggest concern is an ongoing lack of timely hitting, a situational slump at the plate particularly with runners in scoring position that has made #RISPsigh a thing now.
But on the positive side we got what we asked for, all the pieces we need and we are healthy. Hunter Pence just decided to turn it up several notches. Brandon Crawford and Buster Posey know the stretch.
Panik has to follow Núñez who has also been making it happen. Span and Pagan gotta get hot at the same time and Belt … I need you Brandon, I need some power from you. More aggressiveness at the plate. I love the walks and the on-base percentage, but take a chance and rock that thing.
The sharpness is returning to the starters. I like that. And the bullpen? Well I know this, they can’t do it without our support. I can’t be there, but the yard better be rocking.
Let’s Go Giants! Take ’em one day at a time and win ’em all.
September is a funny time for baseball fans whose teams are in the running. My nails are all chewed down to the cuticle. My hair gets a little greyer each year in September. There is agony and joy wrapped up in this beautiful game that confounds and delights us.
I can remember my son’s first SF Giants game like it was yesterday. It was a September 17th game against the division-leading Rockies. This was 2009 and my kid was seven years old. It was Randy Johnson Poster night and he still has his orange My First Ballgame certificate from the Giants and his poster celebrating The Big Unit’s 300th Win, which came that year with Johnson in a Giants uniform.
The Giants trailed the Rox by just two games and Matt Cain was on the mound facing Jorge de la Rosa. We had watched and listened to the Giants all summer and I bought tickets to that game because I figured it might be the one that either got us into a playoff chase or ended our run at the Rockies.
In the ninth, down 4-3, the Giants had runners on 2nd and 3rd with two outs, and we were standing and yelling our guts out when Edgar Renteria grounded out to end the game. The Rockies took a three-game lead with them out of town and we never got closer to the playoffs that year.
The following September of course was our epic run-down of the Snakes that culminated in us stealing the division on the last day and eventually the 2010 World Series Championship And since then, like clockwork, we’ve had a good September every other year and taken it all the way to the World Series, winning twice more. Amazing.
Our runs and collapses in perfect order these last six years have added a powerful, albeit false, pressure to this year.
We ought to be realistic about the incredible run we have just made and see it as unprecedented in quality. We ought to acknowledge we may be fading now not because we cannot do it, not because we don’t have the talent, but rather because we may just finally be out of steam from what has been an exceptional amount of success.
Changes to the team are at the heart of this: the loss of pitchers Petit, Vogelsong and Hudson and the fading of Lincecum and Cain have weakened our formidable staff. Even Javier Lopez doesn’t look as dominant as he has these past few years (not to mention he can’t be spelled by Affeldt anymore either).
Our attempts to just plug in Cueto and Samardzija and Matt Moore and a slew of relievers cannot be expected to align with our every-other-year success. It’s a different team.
In terms of hitting, we lost Pablo and I know how much you all love Matt Duffy (I do, too), but the Panda was a special part of our Championship years. We’ve had four third basemen since Sandoval left … just two years ago. We squeezed out much of the last talent from other hitters: Pat Burrell, Aubrey Huff (THE BUNT ON NOVEMBER 1ST!), Cody Ross, Marco Scutaro, Ryan Theriot, a doping Melky Cabrera. And despite Posey, Pence, Panik, Pagan and Crawford hitting well, hitting remains a problem whether we win or not, which is why winning the World Series the way we have has been even more amazing.
Point is, I don’t want to get all wound up and agonized if we don’t manage to find success all the way to the World Series again. I think the expectation we should is inflated, unrealistic and for some solely predicated on the fact it’s an even year – which is meaningless.
This September may be the end of an amazing dream. If so, I would rather celebrate how successful these last six years have been and lose with the grace of a winner.
I am not giving up. I am in this fight daily and rooting for our boys to do it again. It would be unreal if they did it again. I mean, what a dream – a dream that just keeps not ending? Wow. I want it. I believe we can do it … because we have.
But to expect it isn’t cool.
So let’s turn that even year expectation down a bit, yeah?
We have endured the East Coast and LA bias from national networks for so long they’re irrelevant to us. In fact sometimes it feels better to ride the role of underdog, knowing we have the most experienced, smartest and most tightly knit coaching staff in all the majors.
The mainstream sports media and the hulking brutes of NYC and Chicago always count us out. They have no comprehension of the nuances of the game or teamwork.
They counted us out when we were chasing the D-Backs in ’10 and again vs. the then-Champion Phillies and again in the World Series – even after seeing what MadBum, Timmy and the Beard could do. Not to mention the quietly peerless Buster Posey.
They counted us out when Melky went down for PED use, and we all agreed WE wouldn’t allow him back for the playoffs – though we could have – but rather try to soldier on. This one is always my favorite of the three, because of Pablo’s 3HR, with two off Verlander (him saying “wow,” watching the second one go out – best bad ball hitter ever: Pablo Sandoval). How Romo dismissed Cabrera is maybe my favorite SFGiants WS moment ever.
Then in 2014, they counted us out as a wild card has-been! and we just Madbummed the shit out of them. They counted us out against the Darlings of the Nation and we sent MadBum out to finish them off in their house.
So we are USED to being the ones counted OUT.
But what we know is different. We know we have Rags, Skip, Bam-Bam and Wotus in place. We know that losing Flan for the more conservative Kelly is really just an adjustment, not a loss. We have a Hall of Fame manager who has been through it all.
We know these guys know how to win with their backs against the wall. We know if we just get in to the playoffs, we have as a good a chance as any and a better chance than most because we have CHAMPIONS BLOOD.
I for one, believe that the moves we made are good moves. It hurts so much to have lost Vogey and Petit and Duffy. It hurts a LOT.
But I understand what Evans and Sabean are trying to do and I approve. These are aggressive and expensive moves – Samardzija and Cueto were $90million! We’ve never paid that kinda money for two players before. Duffy was just awesome in Panda’s place for a critical WS series year and more. But I get the trade. Getting the right puzzle pieces is hella expensive.
Here’s what I know: they can’t win if we don’t believe.
and I do.
I believe in this team of managers, coaches and players. I think the new guys need to tune in to a culture of winning and realize that petty losses should be dumped immediately. This is a tightrope walk, not whack-a-mole.
I know Posey, Pence, Bcraw, Belt, Panik, Pagan, D-Span, Nunez and our pitchers that rake can get out of this slump and start producing like the machine they were earlier in the season. It’s all about getting hot at the right time and we have the machine that can do that.
We dispensed with injuries to Pence and Panik and Pagan early so they are ready and playing well.
We dealt for better – read more experienced – pitching help for the bullpen and starters. We’re doing all the right things.
(EXCEPT I STILL REALLY THINK WE OUGHTA BAT THE SP IN THE 8 SPOT AND LET PAGAN AND D-SPAN BECOME BACK-TO-BACK LEADOFF HITTERS).
With 48 games left to play, the San Francisco Giants hold a one game lead over the nemesis in the NL West and have returned home to the confines of AT&T nee´ Pac-Bell Park for a much needed ten game home stand.
Hunter Pence came home with a black eye. Buster Posey’s face was all busted up. We lost a 1-0 CG by Bumgarner and we pounced on and beat Strasbourg. Brandon Crawford had a seven-hit game! We won a 1-0 game for Samardzija. It was a crazy trip.
But now we are home and we’re up a game and there are four dozen left to play. Here at Giants Baseball Corner we changed the avatar of the Twitter account to the one we have used for the stretch run since 2012, our photo of the dugout sign that was featured in the Emmy-award winning Episode 7 of SFG Productions Orange October.
I only have one wish left and that’s to see Bruce Bochy vs. Joe Maddon in the NLCS.
But I must be patient, be filled with fear and hope. I must focus on today. Win today.
Brandon Crawford had SEVEN HITS in a game! It was insane. He went 7 for 8! His batting average increased by 13 points in one night. It was boss. Doing what they do best, which is archiving, CSNBA and AlPav did a really cool bit covering two men to have seven hits in a game. While in Miami, they found the previous and they got them together. Was awesome.
Baggs has a nice piece on a turning point for the bullpen. Stricky looking better, with more pitches and some command. Casilla coming back with a vengeance from the humiliation of the balk. Derek Law putting up numbers.
Welcome gentle reader to The Giants Baseball Corner Reader, Issue 11, a compendium of links to stories and stuff about the Giants since the last GBC Reader.
BTW, You can always read all the Readers as a summation of the season to this point by clicking on the GBC Reader Category link to the right, and they all come up.
Steve Berman, Bay Area Sports Guy, hasn’t been writing much about the G-men this season, but the trade deadline brought this very nice analysis of what he figures the Giants did and why. Good piece.
AlPav has a nice get-to-know-ya with Will Smith, the Giants’ newest left-handed reliever. I am already on the record that anyone who makes an OBVIOUS pun about his name and the Hollywood actor who shares it, is boring me.
Brisbee still isn’t over the loss of Matt Duffy, which is kinda good because it inspired him to do one of his cool retro-looks at awesome Matt Duffy plays from his tenure with los Gigantes.
and the Rays decided to move Duffy to SS when he comes back up and their current SS was none to pleased to hear that news according to Baggs.
A lot of fans were emotional yesterday upon hearing the news the SF Giants had traded Matt Duffy, but I was surprised long-time fan Grant Brisbee was among them – he practically wept. I figured old guys like us were used to the business of baseball and would leap to the evaluation of the statistics of the swap – which he did of course, through his tears.
Me, I found the trade an excellent use of a system we’ve developed with great effort and the right balance of stats and human evaluation in the near-decade since Barry Lamar stalked off into the sunset of post-Giants life.
Sure, I’ll miss Matt Duffy, but he only played for us for two years. It was an intense and impressive couple of years because he had to step into Pablo Sandoval’s big shoes, but I don’t grow that attached to players that fast no matter who they are. It takes me a while to want to make someone “untouchable,” as Posey and Bumgarner are.
Actually, I can remember when fans – terrified about the absence of Panda and failure of McGehee – wanted to trade Matt Duffy for a “real third baseman,” in his rookie year.
And speaking of Panda – a home grown third baseman who was with us through three World Series wins and instrumental in at least one – I do and will miss the Pablo we all loved: an incredible Giant, with huge personality, beloved for his simple, crazy humanity.
Besides, I know Matt Duffy has a long career ahead of him and will excel wherever he plays. I will be watching this guy for a few years to come and heck, he could end up back with us with the way the business of baseball works.
We have done what we set out to do. We have grown our talent at home and added missing pieces to create championship teams, not once, but thrice in the last six years. It has been a stunning achievement, and I think a lot of fans have taken the subtle moves for granted.
It was inevitable that at least one or two or even some of all this home grown talent would have to be used as chips to gain the missing pieces needed. In this case we gave up a lot to get the specific missing elements of our pitching staff, and I for one, am glad we had the guts and aggressiveness to go all-in.
I do not know if Matt Moore and Will Smith are the answer, but I DO know that once they get in Buster Posey’s capable hands for the month of August they’re likely to be much better prepared for a championship run than they have ever been in their lives.
What the Giants have done these last six years is almost unheard of in the modern era. We have kept our coaching staff intact, core players aboard in Posey, Bumgarner, Cain, Lopez and Romo. Turned homegrown talent such as The Brandons, Crawford and Belt, into All-Stars and snagged and locked-up Hunter Pence.
We managed Angel Pagan and Gregor Blanco in balance with rotating OFs. We squeezed the last bits of greatness from Cody Ross, Marco Scutaro, Ryan Theriot, Jake Peavy and Tim Hudson.
We’ve had great coaching at farm club levels resulting in consistently good play from rookies and newcomers to the team. Bruce Bochy is a first-ballot Hall of Fame Manager at this point, and his staff, again mostly intact (MISS YOU, FLAN!) are an amazing group.
If we had rested on our laurels and not made a trade for the essential relief and starting pitching support we needed, I’m not sure we could beat this year’s Cubs. Now I feel we have a legitimate shot not only to achieve that in Bochy vs. Maddon I, but go on to win it all.
Matt, you were a great Giant and that is what made you valuable and in-demand. We will miss you and I wish you all the best in Tampa. I am confident you will excel. I hear you are returning to SS and it must be cool to be with your Dirtbag mentor, Evan Longoria. Enjoy yourself and knock ’em dead.
Meanwhile, turning back to August …
Welcome aboard Matt Moore and Will Smith. Get your gear from Murph, perk up and pay attention. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND LISTENING TO BUSTER POSEY.
Let’s all pull it together and go out there and Even-Year-the-Shit-Outta-This-Thing.
MTK The Writist 