Euphoria

I’m supposed to be reading the adventures of Don Quixote de la Mancha in time for my two o’clock lecture tomorrow, but I think my professor will understand if I don’t quite get through it: he is, after all, a San Francisco Giants fan.

After jumping up and down and pumping my fists in the air in some uncoordinated, spastic dance over and over again in my Santa Cruz apartment this afternoon; after watching my team (MY TEAM!!! The one I adopted eight years ago and stuck with through the foggiest of nights and dreariest of days) run laps around the field and bathe in champagne showers (and drop f-bombs on the air), I sit here in front of my computer at close to two in the morning, unable to wipe the smile from my face.

We did it. I know some people scoff at the tendency of fans like myself to use the word “we” when referring to their team of choice, but I truly think the fanbase is the tenth man on the field. We don’t do any of the pitching or the hitting, but we coax them on from our couches, our barstools, our stadium seats. We may get frustrated at times (many times, in fact; after all, the 2010 adopted slogan for this team was “torture”), but us diehards stand by them.

I can’t remember being prouder than I am today to say I’m a San Francisco Giants fan, or just simply a fan of baseball for that matter. There’s so many lasting images that will stay with me from just today, let alone this week or this entire season, and I can’t possibly sort through them all in my mind or write them all down in an articulate manner. I won’t be able to hold onto every single memory from today no matter how hard I try. But I know I will always remember standing in front of my TV screen, wringing my hands together as Brian Wilson struck out the final batter and Buster Posey threw off his mask and ran towards our closer to congratulate him on winning the National League West crown.

I don’t want to get too negative or bitter, but I did have a definite, “Told you so” attitude towards the many “experts” who counted the Giants out this season, who had them finishing in fourth place–just in front of the San Diego Padres, of course–in the division. I guess I can’t blame them too much; none of us knew that this scrappy team of predominantly veteran hitters and guys labeled as “journeymen” or “wash-outs” would click so well, or that we would manage to pull all these guys off the scrap heaps who would contribute in such a big way. But after last year’s surprisingly good season, I knew that they could pull it off this year.

I could just wax poetic about today and my love of baseball for another hour or so; could talk again about how much I adore this game (for anyone who may have stumbled upon this blog today who hasn’t read my “For the Love of the Game” column that I keep reposting, I’m going to pimp it again, just because I’m pretty proud of how it turned out; read it here). I could talk about the playoff matchup against the Atlanta Braves starting Thursday (which I’ll be attending with my older brother, who I haven’t seen since Lincecum bobblehead day in July–aka way too long ago), but I can’t even think that far ahead yet. All I can do right now is sink my head into my pillow, listen to “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” one more time, and sleep soundly, now that Game 162 is in the books, to be followed by at least three more.