Looks like he's also a "wear-the-glove" guy.

From Henry Schulman, in a piece about Will Clark working with Ryan Theriot:

As hitters, Clark and Theriot are polar opposites. Clark is left-handed, Theriot right-handed. Clark was a gap-power guy while Theriot is, as Clark put it, “one of those handle-the-bat, hit-and-run type guys.”

Clark says potato, Theriot says po-TA-toe. Clark likes Coke, Theriot prefers Pepsi. Clark is a legend, Theriot is a slappy journeyman. Also, I think Will Clark just coined a new euphemism for bad hitters.

COACH: I’m sorry son, we’re going to have to cut you.

PLAYER: B-, but, why?

COACH: Well, let’s just say you’re a handle-the-bat-guy, if you know what I mean.

PLAYER: [Shoots self]

If you’re like me, you’re currently sitting in your jammies at noon on a lovely Thursday updating a blog about the Giants. Also, you entered last offseason with visions of Albert Pujolses dancing in your head. I/you knew it was unreasonable; this team doesn’t hand out multi-year mega-contracts to just anybody. But I/you figured, hey, might as well dream big now, and wind up with some lovely Carlos Beltran parting gifts.

Nope. Turns out the Giants’ offseason upgrade-the-historically-dreadful-offense strategy was two-pronged: acquire a couple of marginal outfielders and hope like hell Buster Posey isn’t broken. OK then.

But it’s unfair to judge Melky Cabrera and Angel Pagan on what they aren’t. And, truly, if you squint through rose-colored glasses while stroking a rabbit’s foot that’s clutching a four-leafed clover while staring at a Will Clark poster, it’s possible to imagine both guys having a significant positive impact.

First, Cabrera: I’m biased  because I don’t pay attention to the American League, meaning my only solid memory of Melky is the 2010 NLDS, when he looked like a geriatric Little Leaguer who didn’t know how to play baseball. On the other hand, his slash line from last year — .305/.339/.470 — would seem positively Bondsian in the middle of this lineup.

Pagan, meanwhile, is almost literally filling Andres Torres’s shoes. They’re big shoes, with a lot of Magic Inside™. And yet — emotions and sweet, sweet memories aside — Pagan is essentially Torres with a track record. Not a great track record, but not a bad one, either. Much like Cabrera, Pagan’s best season — .290/.340/.425 with 37 steals in 2010 — would be dandy in the leadoff spot.

So, in summation: if both of our offseason acquisitions replicate their career years, we’ll be good. Hey — what could go wrong?

Oh, right.

You know the drill: first pitchers and catchers, then bloggers. And much like the dudes unpacking their bags in Scottsdale, I need to ease back into this thing with a little long toss (only difference: I will be eating Cheez Its in my underwear). Promise I’ll delve into meatier matters in the coming days and weeks. For now, a hammy-stretching tidbit:

Scott Cousins will now be wearing No. 6 for the Miami Marlins, a tribute to his favorite player growing up: former Giants first baseman J.T. Snow.

Nice try, Scott. Still hate you.

"Yep, keep writing zeroes."

Whatever happens, Tim Lincecum is about to get a buttload of cash. It might be handed to him in arbitration, doled out in a fat one-year contract or spread over multiple years, Zito-style (hopefully without the whole “being bad at pitching” part). But it’s coming.

This, naturally, has led some to ask if Lincecum is “worth” the $21.5 million his camp is asking for, or even the $17 million the Giants are offering. Here’s something to consider:

2008: $405,000

2009: $650,000

2010: $9,000,000

2011: $14,000,000

In 2008 and 2009, Lincecum was pretty good. Like 500-plus-strikeouts, two Cy Youngs good. And he made less in those two years combined than Aaron Rowand will earn in a month to not play for the Giants. My point isn’t to rub salt in the squatty wound; it’s merely to say that when you think about current value, you also have to think about past value, and in this case it more than balances out.

That doesn’t necessarily mean the Giants should lock Lincecum up through the Ron Paul Administration. A one- or two-year deal might be the smart move, and it seems to be what he prefers. All I’m saying is Timmy’s gonna get paid, and I’m cool with that. You should be too.

Remember this?

A federal judge sentenced an impassive Barry Bonds to 30 days of house arrest Friday for obstructing justice during an investigation of steroids in sports, saying the slugger’s grand jury testimony was evasive and illegal but did not warrant imprisonment.

Huh. What a fittingly lame, weird end to a lame, weird saga. At least now the feds can stop wasting tens of millions of taxpayer dollars chasing a baseball player who sort of lied about not cheating at baseball.

Remember kids: take your flax seed oil.

Wait, what?

[Judge] Illston put the sentence on hold while Bonds appeals his conviction.

I see. So they’re not done wasting money. They’re going to spend some more to make sure this dangerous criminal is kept off the streets and in his mansion FOR A WHOLE ENTIRE MONTH!

Where are the Tea Baggers when you need them?

[If you're curious, here's my general take on the Bonds conundrum.]

Back in the heady, early days of 2011 when this blog was coated in virtual afterbirth and the confetti had scarcely been swept off Market Street, I wrote a post about Andres Torres. Here’s what I said:

It’s tempting to say Andres Torres sums up the Giants’ 2010 season, but that’s actually backwards. The Giants’ 2010 season sums up Andres Torres … Of all the improbable storylines — and there were many — Torres’s is the most improbable, and it isn’t even close. Career minor leaguers on the wrong side of 30 don’t suddenly morph into arguably the most valuable player on a World Series-winning team.

Now here we are, ten months later, discussing the merits of a deal that cost us Torres and Ramon Ramirez and netted Angel Pagan. On the surface, it’s not a terrible trade; Pagan is basically a slightly younger Torres with a slightly longer track record. In an offseason that’s seen other teams sign Albert Pujols and Jose Reyes while the Giants debate whether to keep Jeff Keppinger or Mike Fontenot, there are bigger things to complain about.

But that’s not really the point, is it? If Torres summed up 2010 — glorious, glistening, nougat-filled 2010 — trading him and a decent reliever for a so-so outfielder and being kinda OK with it sums up 2011. Just a yuck year to be a Giants fan.

Oh, sure, we’ve still got a starting rotation that should be carved into a mountainside, a shiny ballpark and a reasonable chance of contending. There are fans all across this great land who’d give up their commemorative bobbleheads and/or firstborn children for one of those things, let alone all three. So we’re spoiled.

But damn it, this wasn’t how the script was supposed to go. Everyone said the Giants — and Torres — were a flash in the pan. That’s the part in the movie where they pick themselves up off the mat and put a crane kick right in the critics’ smirking Coba Kai faces.

But enough self-pity*. Torres is one of those ex-Giants who I’ll never stop rooting for. Not only did he spark the greatest season in San Francisco history, he also seemed like the genuine article, a guy who was honestly playing for the love of the game and making you forget what a horribly worn-out cliche that is.

Take good care of him, Mets fans. He’s a special dude.

* Not really 

Even with realignment and the addition of the wild card, baseball’s playoffs remain an extremely exclusive affair — particularly  compared with the NBA and NFL, where sub-.500 teams routinely sneak in, like a homeless guy straddling the buffet at a $500,000 wedding.

In a way, it’s absurd: After sweating, grunting and nipple-bleeding through a 162-game marathon, teams that manage to qualify are forced to participate in a ridiculously short windsprint that actually determines everything. Not surprisingly, the winner is frequently the squad that got hot at the right moment rather than the one that was built to dominate over the long haul. As Giants fans we shouldn’t exactly complain, but there you go.

So on the surface, adding more playoff teams — and lengthening the postseason — seems like a good idea. Scratch beneath the surface, however, and you’ll find yet another festering, puss-filled Bug Selig boil.

Oh, and it's on his ass. And you have to lance it.

As you probably know by now, baseball’s new collective bargaining agreement adds a second wild card team in each league and a one-game playoff preceding the division series. It could happen as soon as next year, and will definitely happen by 2013.

Pause for a moment to let that sink in: A team — let’s say the Giants — dominates from April to October, only to be unseated in a single game by a far inferior team that happens to have a good pitcher or a hot hitter or weird mojo going that day. Basically, for one (or two) playoff-worthy clubs, it’s reducing the whole deal down to one measly contest — the smallest possible sample, where literally anything can happen.

Ironically, that’s likely how the idea was pitched: Imagine the drama! The intrigue! The ratings! And yeah, this’ll keep more fans involved, slightly delaying the inevitable false hopes-dashing. Hell, if this rule had been in place last year we could have deluded ourselves for at least another couple of games before watching the Braves celebrate. Wait, actually that sounds awful.

I’m not some purist who wants to go back to a two-teams-make-the-Wold-Series-and-fuck everybody-else format; I don’t want Tim Lincecum wearing a tiny hat and a glove the exact size of his hand.* But at a certain point you have to stop and ask: Is this good for the game, or merely the bottom line?

Then again, baseball just signed a new collective bargaining agreement with no acrimony, labor stoppages or bullshit “Billionaires Versus Millionaires” grandstanding. So, you know, could be worse.

* On second thought, that would be awesome

The Jonathan Sanchez trade raises many questions: Should the Giants sign another starter in case Zito is barely adequate/occasionally awful*? Did we get 2011 Melky Cabrera or 2010 Melky Cabrera? How many “Melky”/”milky” puns will I be able to make over the course of a season? (“The Melky Way!” and “Crying Over Spilled Melky” are only the beginning, I assure you.)

There’ll be time to address all that. It’s only November; there’s a vast swamp of overhyped college football games and NBA lockout news between us and pitchers and catchers. For now, I’d like to talk about the guy we gave up.

There were basically four ways to look at Sanchez:

• Maddening but exciting
• Maddening but tolerable
• Maddeningly maddening
• No hitter!

Probably you’ve spent time in all those camps. I was never as pissed as some about the walks or the mental lapses or the perceived indifference. Sure I might’ve tossed a few epithets and empties during the Game 6 NLCS meltdown — but that sort of worked out OK.

Last year was obviously disappointing. And it’s sad that this will be remembered as Sanchez’s final game in the orange and black. But overall I can’t hate Jonathan, or even dislike him; he had too many good moments and a couple genuinely great ones.

Now, am I worried he’ll suddenly remember to take his Control Pills and morph into the Puerto Rican Randy Johnson? Nope, not especially. I’m betting he’ll be what he’s always been: a pretty damn good pitcher who’s often his own worst enemy. Can’t say I’ll miss him, but I won’t not miss him either.

Adios, Jon. It was dirty while it lasted.

* Spoiler alert: he will be.

What? Sorry, lost my train of thought for a second there. Anyhoo…

One year ago today, the San Francisco Giants won the World Series. Really — look it up.

Turns out God's joy-tears are black, orange and white.

Today, we find ourselves debating the merits of signing two lefty specialists for a combined $14 million while our worst-in-the-league offense remains in desperate need of a good Prince Fieldering.

In conclusion: last year was a bit cooler than this year. Bathe in nostalgia. You earned it.

2. Screw the American League. Quick: think of one thing you like about the American League. (I’ll wait) Nothing, right? Yankees-Red Sox rivalry? Um, yeah…no. Ridiculously high-scoring games? Play RBI baseball with your drunk uncle if that’s what gets you off. The DH? If you said the DH, you are never allowed to read this blog, or anything other than the Cliff’s Notes for The Remains of the Day, again. Ever.

3.

Check and mate.