Ratto: Bumgarner's Young Arm Guided by Old Soul


Ratto: Bumgarner's Young Arm Guided by Old Soul


ARLINGTON, Texas -- Madison Bumgarner walked out of the interview room and into the tunnel that would return him to the Giants clubhouse when he faced his only moment of true jitters.

The tunnel was lined with members of the Giants extended traveling party, and they spontaneously applauded him as he ambled through the space theyd left for him. He was like a groom without a bride, the center of all attention, but he knew he had to do something, so he took off his hat and held it over his head in the international sign for Is this what you need me to do?

They did. He intuited it. Another moment in the fast-paced, slow-paced, doesnt-get-better-than-this world of M. K. Bumgarner, Reluctant Hero Du Jour.

He threw eight of the most brilliant, simplest, yet most baffling innings in recent World Series history, muffling the Texas Rangers in Game 4, 4-0. The Giants are one win away from bringing down the house and ending the third-longest streak without a title in baseball, and they couldnt have done it without the guy who wasnt good enough to start the season with the men he defended so well this evening.

Brilliant, because he allowed only three hits, started 19 of the 27 hitters he faced with a strike and in general got enough defense and a bit of luck to complete his best start ever.

At age 21.

Most baffling, at least to the Rangers, because there were so few danger points he faced through the evening. Only one hitter, Josh Hamilton, reached second base, and only two leadoff hitters -- Elvis Andrus in the first and the Michael Young in the fourth -- led off by reaching base, and lasted a total of four pitches before being erased on ground balls. Its hard to gauge a mans brilliance when he is challenged so rarely.

And simplest, because he caused nobody any worries at all, at any point. In a pressure-crushed event, a game which would essentially decide the fate of the World Series, Bumgarner was unmoved, untwitched, un-everything. Nobody had to sweat a moment.

Not Buster Posey, his catcher, who never had to convince him to throw anything and only went out once all night to talk to him, and only because were kind of supposed to. I mean, I didnt need to.

Not Dave Righetti, his pitching coach, who recalled only when he threw the 2-0 fastball to Hamilton (Josh, who grounded sharply to Juan Uribe, who couldnt handle it). I wanted to see what hed do, if hed try to overthrow a fastball or something, but he just got back to what hed been doing all night. Slider, changeup, keeping them off balance, running the ball in when he was supposed to. That (Vladimir) Guerrero at-bat went pretty well.

That was a seven-pitch strikeout.

Not Bruce Bochy, who admitted he asked Posey at the end of the eighth how much Bumgarner had left, heard that he wasnt quite as sharp, and quickly opted for Brian Wilson to close the game.

And his other decisions on this night? I didnt have one.

And not even Bumgarner himself, who has somehow trained himself at age 21 not to act like hes, well, 21.

I just keep telling myself to relax, he said, and Ive told myself so much that its starting to become second nature, and it makes it a lot easier on me and on the other players, I think, to see somebody thats relaxed out there throwing. Thats it, I guess.

Yeah, thats it.

It wasnt a perfect night, in fairness. Posey said, The first couple of innings, he yanked a couple of fastballs, but that was about it. And Bumgarners two-pitch retirement of Ian Kinsler to end the seventh bothered him a bit.

I was trying to get the ball up a little bit because I know he can spin on some balls and pull them down the line, he said. Actually, the pitch I threw him that he popped out on wasnt the one I wanted to make, but it worked out all right. It was a changeup that came back over the plate. I was trying to get it away.

Such sloth.

But in an era in which more men than women are willing to drive lost (and studies show that this is true), Bumgarners few moments of aberrant pitching amid such a masterpiece almost stand out as a relief. It shouldnt be this easy, not for a 21-year-old, not for a kid whose spring training was so baffling that he spent the first month and change in Fresno tidying up his mechanics, and most definitely not for a Giant.

Bumgarner actually demolished the T-shirt-exploitable concept of torture, because clinical dissections arent torture at all. They are science, and Bumgarner was as scientific as all hell Sunday night.

The Giants now send Tim Lincecum out to re-negotiate status questions with Cliff Lee Monday evening, with a World Series 27 outs away. Conventional wisdom likes Lee, but conventional wisdom has laughed at the Giants until this series, and has now been reduced to whistling in admiration at the pitching that has brought baseball to its knees.

And if there is a scene that explains it better than Madison Bumgarner sheepishly waving his hat at family, friends and supporters who just watched him smother the best team in the American League, we havent seen it yet.

Ray Ratto is a columnist for Comcast SportsNet Bay Area.

Does St. Louis' suit against NFL mean hope for the City of Oakland?

Does St. Louis' suit against NFL mean hope for the City of Oakland?

You thought you were done worrying about the Raiders. You thought the votes were in, the moving vans booked for three years down the road, and all gnashing and sharpening of teeth was over. You thought you were free.

Then those buttinsky-come-latelies from St. Louis decided to rear their litigious heads, and now you find yourselves slipping back into that desperate-hope world from which no one escapes.

It seems the city and its regional sports authority has decided to sue the National Football League and its 32 semi-independent duchies over the relocation of the Rams 15 months ago because, and you’ll like this one, the league allegedly did not follow its own relocation rules when it moved the team.

As you know, there is no such thing as a rule if everyone governed by the rule decided unanimously to ignore the rule. This doctrine falls under the general heading of, “We’re billionaires, try and stop us.”

But all lawsuits have a common denominator, and that is that there is money at the end of the rainbow. St. Louis is claiming it is going to miss out on approximately $100 million in net proceeds (read: cash) and has decided that the NFL and especially their good pal Stan Kroenke is going to have to pay for permission to do what they have already done -- specifically, leave.

Because the suit was filed in St. Louis, the benefits of home field advantage apply, and the league is likely to have to reinflate their lawyers for some exciting new billable hours.

As to whether it turns into a windfall for the jilted Missourians, well, as someone who has known lawyers, I would list them as prohibitive underdogs. But there is nuisance value here, which brings us to Oakland.

The city and county, as we know, did not put its best shoe forward in trying to lure the Raiders into staying or the other 31 owners into rejecting the team’s pleas for geographical relief. By that, we mean that the city and county did not fall all over itself to meet the league’s typically extortionate demands.

But they did play angry enough to start snipping about the 2019 part of the Raiders’ 3-More-Coliseum-Years plan, and they are threatening to sue over about $80K in unpaid parking fees, so filing their own breach-of-rules lawsuit might be a possibility.

Because, hey, what’s the point of sounding like a nuisance if you can’t actually become one?

By now, it is clear that everyone in SuitWorld got what it needed out of the Raiders’ move. The city and county could concentrate on guiding the A’s into activity on their own new stadium. The team could go where Mark Davis has been agitating for it to go for at least three years – somewhere else. The state of Nevada could find a place for that $750 million that was burning a hole in its casino vault. And the league went to a market that it, at first reluctantly and then enthusiastically, decided should be its own.

The fans? Oh, please. Who cares about them? To the NFL, and to all corporations in all walks of business, folks are just walking wallets.

But for some cash? Well, climb on board, suckers. The gravy train is pulling out on Track 3.

Nobody is fool enough to think the Raiders would be forced to return. Hell, even St. Louis isn’t asking for the Rams back. They just want to get paid for the money they probably banked on in the good old days before Stan Kroenke decided to head west.

And that would doubtless be Oakland’s stance as well if. Now the circumstances are slightly different, in that St. Louis worked harder to keep the Rams than Oakland did to keep the Raiders. St. Louis scared up $350 million toward new digs for the Rams, well short of what Kroenke would have accepted, while Oakland said it could get its hands on some infrastructure money and no more.

But Mayor Libby Schaaf complained in her relocation post mortem that the league didn’t follow its own guidelines (yay correlation as causation!), maybe with an eye toward throwing a few lawyers into the fire to see how long it would burn.

There is not yet any indication that the city and county are going that route (and the silence may simply mean that they are sick of the Raiders’ saga as everyone else seems to be), but if they do, well, don’t freak out that the team might be forced to return.

Except, of course, in that place where migraines start. Dragging this back up is a bit like the phantom pain amputees feel -- but hey, people will do a lot for a bit of court-ordered cash. Anyone who has ever watched Judge Judy will understand.

A sports-related pie-fixing scandal? Hell never felt so fun


A sports-related pie-fixing scandal? Hell never felt so fun

I’m liking this 2017 so far. Then again, after 2016, nearly any year would be an improvement.

Just this last weekend we got a flat-earth scandal that turned into a mock-up about media self-importance and fake news (yay Kyrie Irving and his impish sense of satire!).

We got the overblown Russell-Hates-Kevin narrative, and the faux Russell-Secretly-Loves-Kevin counternarrative, all because we are stunningly attracted to meaningless and utterly contrived drama (yay our ability to B.S. ourselves!).

We got the NBA All-Star Game ripped for having no defense even though last year’s game was, if anything, worse (yay short attention span!).

We got the Boogie Cousins trade and the national revulsion of all the thought processes the Sacramento Kings put into this perpetually rolling disaster (yay making Boogie and Vivek Ranadive household names!).

And now we got the Great Sutton United Pie-Fixing Scandal. Yeah, pie-fixing. Hell never felt so fun.

So here’s the deal. Sutton United, a very small fry in English soccer, got to the fifth round of the FA Cup, a competition in which all the clubs in England are commingled and play each other until one team remains. The big clubs almost always win, so any time a small club goes deep, it’s a big deal.

Anyway, Sutton went deeper in the competition than nearly anyone in the last century, a charming development given that it is such a small club that it had a stadium caretaker, goalie coach and backup goalie all in one massive fellow, a 46-year-old guy named Wayne Shaw. Shaw became the globular embodiment of the entire Sutton Experience, a jolly lark for everyone involved and especially when he ate a pie on the bench in the final minutes of Sutton’s Cup-exiting loss to Arsenal.

And now he’s been eased into resigning his jobs with the club, because – and this is so very British – there were betting shops taking action on whether he would in fact eat a pie on the bench, and he either did or did not tip off his pals that he was going to chow down on television.

He did eat the pie. His pals collected on their bets. The sport’s governing body opened an investigation into market manipulation by gambling – which is hilarious given that no fewer than 10 gambling establishments have advertising deals with English soccer clubs. Shaw was invited to quit to kill the story, and he took the hint.

Hey, dreams die all the time. But it’s still pie-fixing. Let that rattle around your head for a minute. Pie-fixing. Not match-fixing. Not point-shaving. Pie-fixing.

Now how can you not love this year?

Sure, it sucks for Shaw, but it serves as a series of cautionary tales for athletes around the world.

* Gambling is everywhere, and every time you inch toward it, you dance on the third rail.

* If you want to help your friends, give them cash.

* This is a horribly delicious way to lose your gig.

* And finally, fun in the 21st century isn’t ever truly fun because someone in a suit and a snugly-placed stick is going to make sure you pay full retail for that fun.

But it is nice to know that something that has never happened before is now part of our year. Pie-fixing is a thing now, as silly in its way as Irving’s flat-earth narrative was. And as we steer away from normal games as being too run-of-the-mill-fuddy-duddy entertainment, we have replaced them with sideshows.

Or do you forget how many people complained Saturday and Sunday that the dunk contest wasn’t interesting enough? How stupid is that?

Lots. Lots of stupid. But against pie-tin-shaped planets and pies turned into betting coups, how can it possibly compare?

We chase a lot of idiotic narratives in our sporting lives. The great What Will The Patriots Do To Roger Goodell story died like the old dog it was. We still try to flog Warriors-Thunder as a rivalry in search of better TV ratings when all the obvious evidence is that it is no such thing unless you think a couple that broke up nine months ago is still a solid story. We have Bachelor fantasy leagues, for God’s sake.

This would leave most normal folks in despair, thus matching their everyday experiences, but yin meets yang, and every time it looks like we are all barrel-rolling into the sun, we get Irving, and then we get Wayne Shaw.

In short, 2017 is going to be fun of grand surprises for us all. I look forward to the day President Trump tries to fete the Patriots and only gets to Skype with Bob Kraft and the equipment guys who midwifed DeflateGate, and Mark Davis in Las Vegas, just to see if he can get a P.F. Chang’s into the Bellagio.

Why not? This is sport’s year-long tribute to sketch comedy, and evidently everyone is signing on enthusiastically to replace lessons of morality and honor and equality and dignity and sportsmanship with slackened jaws and belly laughs.

So yay sports! Or as it is clearly becoming, A Night At The Improv.