World Series 2012

The Giants beat the Tigers.

In a world without emblems, this would be quite dramatic, even cinematic.  In a literal world, this would bring to mind oversized men wielding clubs against large ferocious cats with black and orange bodies.  The giants would be muscular, square-jawed, beady eyed, merciless.  The tigers would have powerful limbs, sharp claws and elaborately camouflaged faces that disguised the dead, pitiless eyes.  There would be grunts of exertion, thuds and squeals, the stench of sweat and terror.  There would be a Hesiod or a Homer to record the action.  That’s in a world without emblems, a world that Thomas Hobbes would have called ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short’.

But we do have emblems.  We have things that stand in for other things.  Representatives.  Metaphors. Images. Symbols.

The Giants I refer to are normal sized men, mostly, who play baseball for a team located in the city of San Francisco.  The Tigers are human, have, mostly, uni-colored faces, and play baseball for a team located in Detroit.

Or at least they did play in those cities.  Neither will play a meaningful game again until April of next year.  April.  Of next year.  Tomorrow is November 1st, which means there will be five months without baseball.

April.  Of next year.  Five months.  Without baseball.


I don’t blame the Giants.  Well, not much.  They played fairly and they played better than the Tigers.  Mostly, they pitched better.  The Tigers couldn’t hit jack squat if it meant a multi-year contract.

Mostly, I blame the Tigers.  Because, as I may have mentioned, the Tigers couldn’t hit jack squat if it meant a multi-year contract.  They couldn’t hit the parish if they were standing inside the church.  They couldn’t hit the moon if they were standing on a crater.  They couldn’t hit water if they were standing in the river.  Okay, okay, I’ll stop now.   Wait, just one more.  They couldn’t hit Pluto if he was orbiting Mickey Mouse.  Or whatever.

The Tigers beat the fekakta Yankees in four games.  Seven games would have been nice, but whatever it takes to beat the Yankees, I’m in favor of.  The Tigers had the best pitcher on the planet.  They had a triple crown winner, the first since 1967 (and just to mumble the names of the other Triple Crown winners brings momentary tranquility.  Try it: Carl Yastrzemski.  Frank Robinson.  Mickey Mantle.  Ted Williams.  Lou Gehrig.  Ahhhh.  I feel better already.) They had a bullpen, they had a steady, seasoned manager, they had momentum, they had god on their side.  And they got swept and we got to watch only four games in the World Series.

I’m not a Tigers fan, not really.  I’m a baseball fan, and a World Series fan.  I was hoping for some good games and hoping that the series would go at least six games, maybe a bonanza of seven.  A few extra innings contests, maybe a walk off or two, maybe an almost no-hitter.  You know, October baseball.

Didn’t happen.  The best pitcher on the planet got hammered in the first game, the Triple Crown winner watched helplessly as the final pitch of the series sailed across the plate, and the steady, seasoned manager managed to say, “I never thought we’d sweep the Yankees, and I never thought we’d get swept by the Giants.”

I am trying to curb my sarcasm here so let me just say this, “mmmmmggggllltytufoffffaaarforg”.  Yes. That sums it up exactly.