If you missed it last night, North Beach was CRAZY. Born and Raised Bay Area SF residents know what I am talking about. Now that it’s died down a bit, I thought I’d share a nice quote from Sfist commenter A Native Son
And so the day after begins. City workers clean up the broken glass. Shopkeepers scrub the graffiti from the walls. And those who got to a newspaper stand early enough walk back to their apartments with stacks of Chronicles and Examiners under their arms. Something seems different this morning because something is different this morning.
We woke up as World Champions.
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Last night, we were all witnesses to something no one, alive or dead, has ever seen: the San Francisco Giants won the World Series. I waited 24 years to see this. Some waited one month. Others waited 52 years. How many passed before this happened? To them, I hope they know that the boys did it.
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I can’t believe it. I believed all the way until it actually happened. And now, I can’t believe it.
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Mays and McCovey couldn’t do it.
Marichal and Cepeda couldn’t do it.
Clark and Mitchell couldn’t do it.
Bonds and Kent couldn’t do it.
And now you’re telling me that Lincecum and Cain and Bumgarner and Posey and Ross and Huff and Wilson did it? Edgar Renteria?! Are you kidding me? Edgar Renteria??? Are you telling me these guys did it?
That’s what I’m telling you.
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The Giants have one of the proudest legacies in sports. We have won more games than any other team in baseball. No team has sent more players to Cooperstown than the Giants—not by a long shot. We made the World Series 19 times, more than any other National League team, played in 18, and decided to boycott one. Said thanks, but no thanks to a World Series. That’s hutzpah.
We know this history. We know our place in baseball. Which is why it hurt so much, why it killed us to know that the San Francisco version of the Giants have never been crowned as the kings we know ourselves to be.
We are not Boston. We are not Chicago. We do not think of ourselves as lovable losers who relish in their long-suffering, woe-is-me mediocrity. I’ve always despised the Red Sox fans, the Cubs fans, the White Sox fans. The Yankees fans, I resented because winning came too easy for them—it was expensive and therefore cheap. But Boston and Chicago, I loathed because they loved being losers. San Francisco is too proud a town to be like them, and yet, as the years went by, our beloved Giants became more and more associated with their foolish franchises.
No more.
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Yesterday, before the final game began, I realized that nothing I wanted as a child survived into adulthood besides this. After all, we all put our childish things away, or those desires have been realized at some point or another. But what could a 31 year old man want that he also wanted as a 7 year old boy? I no longer want a Lamborghini Countach, I don’t want to have Lisa as my girlfriend.
Only this.
I will never again stand in wonder at my friend’s excitement over her wedding day. She’s dreamt of it since she was 10. I finally understand.
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Let’s get greedy. No more jinxes, no more holding our collective breath. Let’s call it now: repeat. Three-peat. Whatever. Why not? No one thought we’d do it this year, no one will think we’ll do it next year. Good. So let’s do it.
Halladay? Oswald? Lee? These guys are the shut down kings? They gave our batters no respect and we gave them none in return.
Who can touch our pitching? Who? The Phillies? Please. The Yankees? The big apple is spoiled to the core—screw them. The dodgers? If you don’t mind, I believe we’ll look to the entire American League as our rivals from now on. Thanks though.
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Today we reclaim our rightful place in baseball. Today, Giants roam the land.
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Forgive the sappy sentimentality. It’s one of those days. Let’s have more of them.