Trade rumors take back seat to Bochy laughing at baseball – Comcast SportsNet Bay Area
It is no longer important whether the San Francisco Giants win the National League West, or the National League, or the World Series. You may think it is, but you are wrong.
What is important is to take the time in your otherwise miserable day to bask in the warm, comforting glow of Bruce Bochy’s massive brainbox. Everything else in baseball pales in significance – every trade, every rumor, every deed, every thought.
Bochy, who was an excellent baseball manager, a wine connoisseur, a walking maniac and a man with a hat size listed only as “Sasquatch Normal,” is now a certifiable mad genius. He’s one of those modern interstellar brainiacs like Stephen Hawking and Peter Higgs and Gerard Kuiper (no relation) and Jan Oort and Lucianne Walkowicz and Phil Plait and Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Morgan Freeman, all people who understand as much as can be understood about the universe as we know it now.
Except that none of those intellectual yahoos, pikers and graveyard whistlers ever did this:
Pinch-hit for a pitcher (Matt Cain) who had a no-hitter with a pinch-hitter who was actually a pitcher (Madison Bumgarner); watched that pinch-hitter double and then replace him with a pinch-runner (Jeff Samardzija) who is also a pitcher; have that pitcher score the game-winning run and then replace with another pitcher (George Kontos), and then replaced by four other pitchers to help seal off a victory that re-confirmed the overarching power of his medulla oblongata.
In a victory that would probably be ignored as just one game in 2,430, Bochy took the managerial book and scrawled Neptunian mathematical theorems all over it. He thought the unthinkable, thought it three more notches past that (said notches being “You’re losing your perspective,” “Is this just for a bet?” and “Are you shovel-faced drunk, or just screwing around?”) and put it into practice. He discovered the center of the galaxy and shopped at the Whole Foods right there before heading back home in time for dinner.
In other words, the secrets of the universe spin around his massive dome (hence its improbable size, which we thought was just an accident of birth but now realize is required to pack that many cranial synapses).
The key here being that you can’t prove this wrong.
Nobody has ever done this before, let alone make it work in such a demonstrable way. Nobody has ever thought of his starting rotation as such a dramatic adjunct to his bench before, and nobody has had the spine to humor his hunch so egregiously.
In other words, even for atheists, Bruce Bochy is now clearly a god, the man who knows the secrets of creation while finding the divine beauty in a bottle of Ballast Point.
Until now, he was just a baseball guy like a lot of others, someone who thought outside the box on occasion. Now he is a guy who has turned the box into a dodecahedron, and decided to leave it anyway and orbit it – just because he could.
As a result, the Giants won a game that was handy for them to win, which in itself is no big deal. They’ve done that 10,925 other times.
But what Bruce Bochy did to win that game is why all other baseball concerns must cease. It seems clear now that he has not won the World Series all 21 years in which he has managed only because he likes to toy with the vagaries of chance, and let the forces of the universe buffet him around a bit.
Sunday, though, he tipped his hand. He laughed at baseball convention and then made it kneel before him. He revealed Sunday, perhaps without intending to, that he owns competitive sport and all the physical laws that control them, the planet’s cultural underpinnings and the tectonic plates that holds us all in place. Truth is, I now see that he could make the planet his ottoman and the stars his Christmas lights, and frankly, he scares the hell out of me now.
So why doesn’t he just become the high regal prefect of the quadrant, and use his powers to bring the Big Bang Theory to heel?
I have a theory.
He likes wine, and the one thing baseball managers get more than anything else is free alcohol. I’m guessing he is just toying with us for free Tractor Shed Red by the magnum, and if not for that, he would grow weary of mere athletic pursuits and simply turn our world into TerraBochy, the base camp for the new universal order.
And I for one am taking a knee before my new galactic overlord because I am an abject coward who doesn’t need to be turned to soot by a single furrow of his tarpaulin-sized brow.
In other words, thank God he and his minions are heading to Philadelphia. I am hedging my bets by building a spaceship, and the rest of you are on your own.
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