EVERYTHING
FOR YOUR FAMILY
Editors Note
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Editor's Note: Guest contributor Kevin Falls, a writer-producer, formerly wrote for the magazine's Dad on the Edge column. The Giants' right fielder, Reggie Sanders, looks up into the autumn night. He seems to have a bead on Spiezio's drive, which didn't seem like it was hit very hard when he swung. Sanders is backing up, he's gonna catch it, the runners will tag, they'll be two out and two on, the pitcher will pitch out of the jam, the score will stay 5-0 and the years of suffering will finally come to an end. But Reggie is still backing up, he bumps up against the short right field wall, he bumps up against the short right field wall because he's running out of room, he's running out of room, I say, I scream, which means, which means...ohmygod...The hor-rah... It is four months later. Most of you reading this are still on the Angels' high, images of Game 6 still dancing in your head, enjoying your Sports Illustrated's special leather-bound commemorative to the Angels and your World Champion foam fingers. Me, I'm on a steady IV drip of pain, will be forever, because my team, with their Buckneresque collapse, have done it to me again. Sadly, I passed the Giants' sorry legacy down to my 10-year-old son, like some kind of mutated gene, cursed him with perennial disappointment and heartache. He bawled after Game 6 and Game 7 (there, happy now?). "You don't understand, Dad. I've waited my whole life for this." This is where the father has to step in and impart wisdom and spin. "Hey, it was a great ride. There are 30 other teams that would love to have come this far. Never stop believing. There's next year and don't worry, Jeff Kent will come back. It's just a game, nobody died..." I didn't enjoy the postseason. I wouldn't tell my son this. I never enjoyed any of the Giants' playoff series even though this wild-card edition showed more heart and character than any Giants team I'd ever seen. Because I KNEW how it would end. With each victory, I knew the disappointment of the inevitable would be that much greater. Great attitude, huh? When the Giants went ahead three games to two in the World Series and headed south, I said (to myself, never to my son) that there was no shame in losing the last two. Just don't do a flop for the ages, like say blow a five-run lead in the late innings. So. That Sunday night after it was all over I sifted through the rubble. What did I glean from the previous three weeks? Tableaus began to emerge, moments and memories that grow warmer and larger as they begin to eclipse the loss. Memories like my wife, who'd rather watch public access than a baseball game, listening to the Series on the radio. Being allowed to watch the playoffs on TV at dinner with the whole family, even my daughter enraptured, the explosion of joy and screaming and hugging and barking when David Bell slid across home plate and the Giants won the pennant. Barry hitting balls into the ether. Talking daily to family faraway - Dad, Mom, brothers-in-law, nephews. And that thing between father and son. Strengthened. He's hooked, the poor kid. I willed him this legacy. He joins the Lost Boys, descendants of Cubs, Indians and Red Sox fans, wandering in limbo, waiting for the messiah, relying only on blind faith. My son wore his Giants jersey to school the very next day after his team lost, to tell his Southern California schoolmates that they are a part of who is he. Forgive me, son. |
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