It's an hour before Thanksgiving rolls in, and I find myself thinking grateful thoughts. I want to give thanks first and foremost for the happiness and health of my family, which I will never ever take for granted. Also, for the luck of living in a country, however imperfect, that allows its citizens to make changes, however imperfectly, in a deliberative and peaceful manner.
But let's get to the good stuff: I'm thankful for the chance once a week between April and October to watch a guy who might become one of the greatest pitchers of all time. Sure, they said that about Dwight Gooden, too, but now's not the time to invoke skepticism, jinxes, or the law of averages. Nosiree. I'm also thankful that, as down periods go, the Giants' nadir was four years. Four measly years. You whippersnappers might have found 2005-2008 an eternity, but it's nothing compared to so many franchises. Of course I'm assuming that it's all jeroboams and tasty custard from here into infinity or until I die, whichever comes first, but even in a more realistic vein, it's fair to say this team has turned the corner and will at least prove interesting and competitive well into the next decade.
I'm thankful that I'm 40 and gray and cranky but still excited about a man nicknamed "Kung Fu Panda."
I'm grateful and thankful for Mays Field. I'll never get tired of walking along McCovey Cove, peeking through the porthole, entering through the gate under the bleachers, and emerging through a passageway into a green, sunlit bowl of baseball, the dirt perfectly smooth and the chalk lines true.
I'm thankful that Miss Malita Monkeypants is absolutely nuts for baseball even if she doesn't know it yet.
I'm thankful for loving this game unconditionally. I'll stop in Golden Gate Park on a cold foggy day to watch a Pony League game in which the pitchers have walked the previous 15 batters. I'll listen to the Royals-Pirates interleague matchup on Internet radio. I'll play until my arm falls off -- as long as it doesn't affect my sex life.
And I'll root for the Giants, no matter what. I can imagine a few circumstances in which I end up eating those words, but they mainly involve a massive team-wide child-pornography conspiracy, or on my part, conversion to radical Islam, or generally a very bad apocalypse. (Sorry, the Dodgers winning the World Series doesn't count.) Otherwise, I'm in it for the long haul. My season tickets might someday go away, or life's circumstances might force my blog to go quiet, but I'll never find myself switching allegiances or, like so many embittered by news of strikes and massive payrolls and questionable nutrients, swearing off the pros for a "purer" form of the sport.
I'm also thankful that you knuckleheads keep tuning in to my ramblings, ruminations, statistical bumblings and half-baked ideas. Thanks for all your comments and feedback over the past six-plus years. Snif, snif. See what the holidays do to me? Now get out of here, you big lugs, and go eat some tofurky! And instead of watching stupid old football, crack open one of these and one of these.
