Baseball has a funny way of sticking with you. Some plays, some moments, some games, some players, just latch onto certain segments of your brain and I’m not fit to diagnose why.
I’ve consumed thousands and thousands of San Francisco Giants games in my life. Some through paper box scores, and others through digital ones; many through the speakers of my bright yellow boombox that my parents got me in my youth, and many more through god knows how many different car stereos; some I watched on TV, some I watched on a computer, and some I watched on my phone; a few were in person, and plenty have been followed through social media or the play-by-play data online.
And I’ve forgotten most of them, of course. Countless memorable games and can’t-miss highlights that have been labeled as you won’t ever forget that have been, ironically, thrown out in my annual spring cranial cleaning.
What we forget is rarely weird. What we remember, however, always seems so strange.
I remember, for instance, July 2, 2013 vividly. The Giants, seeking to repeat as champions, were mired in quite a slump. A once promising season had fallen by the wayside. They’d lost five of their last six games, and scored one run in three of their last four. They were flailing and feckless. They were inventing new ways to lose.
In a word, they were pathetic.
I was in Yosemite on that day, spending time with my parents for the first time since I had moved out and attempted to start life as an adult. There’s a cafeteria/bar/pizza parlor/patio in the valley, where we would stay on our then annual vacations, and they throw sports on the television, which is quite good of them. In 2013, the glorious pre-streaming era, they played the Giants, because the Giants were on the station they got.
And so I wandered with my dad to check in on the Giants game, eager for a glorious battle between Tim Lincecum and Homer Bailey. Excited for a chance for the Giants to right the ship. The game was only a few innings in when we got there, and we weren’t planning on staying long.
But I had to stay and catch the first hit. My dad, less patient, wandered back to the cabin. Every now and then I’d roam back between innings to fill him in: still no hit. Occasionally he’d meander back to the cafe and poke his head in: still no hit.
Finally and mercifully, the game ended. Nine no-hit innings by Bailey. I remember remarking, I think to my dad but perhaps just in my head, that at least the Giants had finally hit rock bottom. A brutal June swoon that began with getting blown out in both halves of a June 1 doubleheader had reached it’s climactic moment. The Giants had been bounced off the bottom of the riverbed, and had nowhere to go but up. They had been no-hit, and things could not, and would not, get worse.
I was thinking about that game today, as the Giants lost 10-0 to the Toronto Blue Jays. The thought first popped up in the third inning, when Dylan Cease struck out Bryce Eldridge, Drew Gilbert, and Eric Haase in dominant fashion, ending his first turn through the order with emphasis. It was perhaps too early to contemplate a no-hitter, especially given that the Giants, for all their woes, possess baseball’s fifth-best batting average. They struggle to spin hits into runs, and really struggle to spin runs into wins, but they do get their dinks and their doinks and their grab bag of miscellaneous singles.
But Cease cruised through the fourth on just nine pitches. And while a two-out walk drawn by Willy Adames broke up a perfect game in the fifth inning, Cease’s immediate rebuttal — overpowering Eldridge for another strikeout — made it clear that the other historic bid remained intact.
It was hilariously emblematic of the Giants season that Logan Webb was matching Cease bar for bar, but only after stalling out of the starting gates. Webb allowed back-to-back singles to open the game, followed them up with a one-out walk and a single to score a run, and then ceded the first grand slam of his career to Kazuma Okamoto.
By that point the had thrown 25 pitches, allowed five runs, and retired one batter. And then, in typical Webb fashion, he retired the next 13 batters consecutively, and needed just 46 pitches to do so. In all, Webb would make it through seven innings, giving up just a single and a walk after that fated stretch to open the game.
Cease, meanwhile, would not live up to his verb comprising his surname. He gave in with another walk in the sixth — this time a leadoff bases on balls to Gilbert — then struck out Haase, struck out Ramos, and induced a weak groundout from Luis Arráez. The no-hitter watch was well and firmly on.
It highlighted how useless the offensive display was — and how dominant the pitching was — that no one started to question the no-hitter until the seventh inning, when it became apparent that Cease was headed for squeamish manager pitch count territory, which wasn’t helped by his third walk of the game, this time to Rafael Devers. But he worked through it, and entered the eighth inning with a no-hitter intact.
In that frame, he got the two things he needed: a nine-pitch inning, and a highlight play from his defense. The former was necessary for John Schneider to feel comfortable sending his ace out to finish the job. The latter — a 396-foot fly ball from Eldridge that Daulton Varsho tracked down — was mandatory for the no-hitter. According to rule 109.3 in the Big Book of Baseball Rules, and I quote, “Every no-hitter must feature at least one (1) highlight defensive play in which you think a hit will be achieved, but it is instead stolen by a defender, resulting in a pitcher celebration that serves as the first on-field acknowledgement of the historical achievement at hand, and which will be uploaded to MLB’s YouTube channel within 30 minutes of the final out, to be replayed in perpetuity by millions of fans, at least 5,000 of which, annually, will be mandated to claim that they were in attendance even though they were not.”
At that point, the no-hitter felt like a given. The Blue Jays had their play. Cease had made it through eight innings with only one scare, only four balls hit harder than 90 mph, and 11 strikeouts.
But the Giants had a cheeky trick up their sleeves. They had tried everything to knock Cease out of rhythm: taking pitches, swinging at pitches, looking blankly at pitches, making jokes while watching pitches go by them … you name it, they’d tried it. But late in the game they tried a new tactic: ice him out.
It started in the top of the eighth inning, when Spencer Bivens replaced Webb, and an oh-so-long inning ensued. Bivens loaded the bases with one out, and then induced a double play ball, only to watch as Devers flat out dropped a pitch thrown right to his chest. A run scored, the inning lived on, and then another run scored on a single. They had kept Cease, now into triple figures with his pitch count, sitting in the dugout for a long time.
Was it any coincidence that when he took the mound in the eighth, he immediately threw a pitch that Eldridge tattooed deep into the night, even though it was ultimately caught?
Apparently the Giants didn’t think so, because they doubled down on their efforts in the ninth inning, with a man who has been honing this craft all season: Ryan Walker. If a laboriously long inning is what Tony Vitello is after, then he knows just the man to call. And indeed, Walker took his time issuing a leadoff walk to Nathan Lukes, then followed it up with back-to-back home runs issued to Vladimir Guerrero Jr. and George Springer, both on teed-up hangers placed perfectly into the wheelhouse of the respective sluggers.
Walker mixed in a single and a few other long counts, ultimately throwing 28 pitches in the inning, the perfect amount of time for Cease to sit, grow cold and stiff and bored, and then get called on once again.
This time it worked. Cease took the mound for the ninth inning, and the third pitch he threw caught too much plate, with too little movement. Ramos jumped on it, lining it sharply into center field.
The no-hit bit was over, and it honestly felt anticlimactic. You almost found yourself rooting for a little bit of history. Maybe it’s the memory of Chris Heston influencing me, but there’s something magical about how a no-hitter stands as an outlier in a player’s performance, which allows it be viewed as separate from a run of the mill great outing. Great pitchers throw them, yes, but mediocre pitchers throw them as well. Sometimes players throw a no-hitter, and the next week get rocked. It feels less like a sustainably great performance by a sustainably great player, and more like the sport’s version of an eclipse; a perfect confluence of magic, skill, luck, and destiny bestowed upon a pitcher some random weekday from the baseball deities.
But eight innings of one-hit ball by an ace who was available this winter but the Giants didn’t even try to sign, followed by three quick outs from Tyler Rogers, an elite reliever who was available this winter but the Giants didn’t even try to sign? Well, that just feels like a baseball team that’s run better than yours and coached better than yours, using their players who are better than yours to win.
And with that, the Giants fell to 16 games below .500 for the first time in eight years. It wasn’t a no-hitter like the one Bailey painted all those years ago, but it sure feels like rock bottom all the same.
Then again, the day after Bailey no-hit them 13 years ago, the Giants got walked off in the 11th inning, and would lose six of their last seven. So maybe it’ll get even worse.
