A Post for Baseball on a Birthday

On April 29, 1984, the Giants played the Reds in Cincinnati. Mike Krukow went 4 innings and gave up 6 runs in what would become a 7-3 loss. The Giants' record dropped to 7-15, and they were on their way to what must have been a pretty miserable season, finishing 30 games under .500. However, unbeknownst to anyone in the organization, that day was the start of a new era in Giants baseball. For that was the day that yours truly drew his first breath of air in this world, and it just so happened to be in the City By The Bay.

My first meaningful baseball memories came in 1989, when I was 5 years old. Kevin Mitchell's barehanded catch stands out, but of course they all are dwarfed by the earthquake. While my mom and older brother were finding their seats at Candlestick Park for Game 3 of the World Series, I sat on our living room floor, not knowing what was going on, but kind of enjoying the ride. No one we knew was greatly affected, so I didn't grasp how big of a deal that all was until much later. Four years later, I was much more personally devastated, when on the last day of the 1993 season, the Giants lost their game to the Dodgers, and with it the division title to the Braves, despite a dominating 103-win season. With the arrival of Barry Bonds, that season was when I became a die-hard fan. On September 18, 1997, when Brian Johnson hit a walk-off home run in the 12th inning versus the Dodgers to tie up the division, I was watching with a buddy, although he was more of an acquaintance. But in that moment, a true friendship was cemented, and he remains one of my best friends today.

My point is this: out of all of those "I remember exactly where I was when that happened" moments in my life, a disproportionate amount of them involve baseball, and more specifically the Giants. I can't tell you why it happened that way. Sure, my parents raised me as a Giants fan, but my fandom only grew after I left for college. Being a Giants fan was never a choice. It just happened. Like falling in love.

And that's what's great about sports. There's not really any wrong answer*. Even when I'm watching a game or playoff series involving two teams I don't really care about, by the end of the it, I'll find myself having a rooting interest. As trivial as sports are, it's comforting knowing that my mind will sort itself out on its own, without me even trying. Almost as if its reverting back to instincts.

For me, my instincts will always take me back to baseball. Again, I can't quite tell you why. Football seems to me to be the sport of sports, with it's combination of intense athleticism, physical brutality, and necessary strategic brilliance**. And baseball certainly can't compete with the constant action nor the aesthetically pleasing natural choreography of basketball. Hockey is the same way. There's arguments to be made for soccer (although I don't know what they are), volleyball (way underrated), and everything else. But there's something about baseball that draws unconditional love. Maybe it's because it's so unique -- played on a diamond (as opposed to back and forth on a rectangle), and played with no clock. Plus I think there's general consensus that hitting a baseball is the most difficult thing to do in sports.

Whatever it is, I'm glad it's a part of my life (and I bet you are, too). I'm glad I get to write about it (and I hope you are, too). I'm headed out to the ballpark this afternoon with friends and family. I can't think of a better way to spend a birthday.


*The Dodgers, Yankees, Red Sox, Lakers, Cowboys, and Packers are the exceptions to this.

** Seems to me that we should just settle wars on the gridiron.