The Fall Classic

I have always considered myself a dog lover. When my son Cole was eight years old, he had this little smooth coat fox terrier -- Lulu. Perfectly adorable to look at, the reality was quite the opposite. In fact, she was the most neurotic, high strung little cur that ever existed. Clearly, a misspelled breed name. It should be terror -- not terrier. When Lulu wasn't chewing on woodwork and baseboards, she'd jump up on the table at fancy dinner parties and break crystal. And, mind you, this was while the guests were seated. Red wine everywhere! To this day, the memory of her incessantly shrill yapping and schizophrenic behavior provide me with a spot on definition for the French word migraine.

It is October 2002. A date seared into my mind like a branding iron straight through my skull and into my cranium. The Giants are leading the Series against the Angels 3 games to 2. Right before game six, my Giants cap that I've had since I was a kid vanishes into thin air. Now, I wear that hat for all the games. I can't find it anywhere. The game starts. Our pitcher, Russ Ortiz takes a five to nothing lead into the seventh inning. Nine more outs and we are world champions! Dusty walks out to the mound and hands the game ball to Russ. The Angels are so incensed, they rally back to win the game and win the Series the next day in game seven.

After an epic choke job of that magnitude, I polished off a pitcher of martinis and headed for bed -- teetering and bewildered. There on my bed rested the tattered remains of my beloved cap. Compliments of Lulu. She hid it, destroyed it and then added insult to injury by thoughtfully placing it on my pillow after the devastating loss. The little devil dog knew exactly what she was doing... She had deliberately stolen my mojo solely to place a hex on my team. And, then the crafty little bitch had chewed it up to spite me forever.

That hat was more than just a symbol of support for my team. For though it was faded with age, it's kelly green underbill and inner head band liner stained with the sweat of my brow from years of passionate campagning, it was also a totem for all the generations who have loved the orange and black -- the most honored and venerated professional team in all of sport. A team that has won more games than the Yankees, Dodgers, Cardinals in baseball; Lakers, Celtics, Knicks in basketball; Bears, Cowboys, Giants, 49ers, Steelers in football or Manchester United in soccer. The franchise with more hall of famers enshrined in Cooperstown than the fabled New York Yankees despite their impressive array of hardware accumulated from 26 world series championships. The roll call of greatness whose names personify the very essence of the sport itself. Christy Mathewson. Willie Mays. Willie McCovey. Juan Marichal. Orlando Cepeda. John McGraw. Carl Hubbel. Cap Anson. "Wee Willie" Keeler. Rube Marquard. Joe McGinnity. Mel Ott. Gaylord Perry. Bill Terry. And, the countless others who on their way to the hall wore the Giant uniform with distinction. Not forgotten and shrouded in a controversy that only true greatness can court is Barry Bonds. The ultimate anti-hero to those who wrap themselves in the cloth of hypocrisy, but, undeniably the greatest player to ever suit up. These are my heroes. This is my team representing a line up card for the ages. And, in the 50-years since the club moved from the Polo Grounds in Manhattan to San Francisco, Giants fans remain among the most loyal and devoted in all of sports, awaiting their first world series championship title in the City by the Bay.

Former Giant skipper Roger Craig had a way of spinning folksy homilies into the lexicon of San Francisco sports lore. When Scott Garrault was a young pitcher for the club during its late 1980s resurgence, he experienced a losing streak that threatened his confidence. In his reassuring North Carolinian voice, Craig intoned to his young pitcher: "Don't get your dobber down." The dobber in baseball is the little button on the top of the cap. As I turned out the light to sleep that fateful night, I stared up at the darkened ceiling and thought, "I am losing my faith. My dobber has never been this down. Hell, she chewed the dobber completely off and buried it!"

Somewhere out there on a sand lot, a small group of kids laugh with glee as they circle the bases with reckless abandon. The crack of a bat echoes across a diamond. The crowd roars in the chill of autumn. Above it all, presides a baseball god with a sword of justice in one hand and judgment book in the other. Karmic justice for the deserving and the damned.

It is with only a tinge of sadness that I must report Lulu was run over by a car less than three months later. As we stood by Lulu's little grave with the hard, dark earth and shovel at its side, the sun glared brightly upon a frost covered January morning. Wincing in the harsh light, I told myself that duty demand I utter a brief, solemn benediction for the comfort of my surrounding family, which I did. But, as the children wailed balefully, it was all I could do to restrain myself from smiling just a little. For with a little patience, comes justice in this world. Such are the roles of fathers and baseball fans alike.