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Tim Lincecum Throws No-Hitter, Wrench In My Plans To Ignore Baseball And Take Up Knitting

July 13, 2013


Oh, Timmy. Timmy, Timmy, Timmy. I knew you had it in you.


OK, I didn’t know. But I suspected! I hoped! I had an extra drink and squinted and stared at my 2010 World Series commemorative baseball. Still, for much of the season you confounded. One pitch, you looked like the old Timmy. Next pitch, you looked like Mitch Kramer getting his ass paddled.

No, like, really...was that you?

Seriously…was that you?

You teased. You titillated. You tested. You made us wonder what the holy hell happened, whether it was all possibly an amazing, mindfucking lucid dream. that you, too?

Wait…is that you, too?

Then, tonight. You weren’t perfect. That’s not your style. You hit a dude, you walked some dudes, you jacked up your pitch count. Hell, in the sixth I kinda wanted Bochy to pull you.

Stupid me. Stupid, cynical, me-of-little-faith.


We are so, so spoiled. Two championships. A homegrown MVP/Boy Scout/cherub behind the dish. Perfect games, Pablos, Pences, oh my. This team is brimming with characters, stories, witty anecdotes. The Rays and Cubs and Royals would sacrifice all manner of firstborns for a teeny taste of what we’ve enjoyed in recent years, yet here we are basking in more of it just…because.

Oh, sure, the Giants are seven games under and six games back. Zito could lay an egg tomorrow and we could limp into the break. Let’s be real, though: this didn’t have to happen. Probably it shouldn’t have happened. It did happen.


Oh, Timmy.

Timmy, Timmy, Timmy.


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