Ratto: Fix the problems Giants, or no October

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Ratto: Fix the problems Giants, or no October

Aug. 23, 2011

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CSNBayArea.com

Well, thats another 200 minutes you, and the Giants, can never get back.

The momentary Era Of What The Hell Maybe This Wont Suck After All Feeling ended with a monumental thud Tuesday well, with a thud and balls bouncing all the acreage as the local nine (and barely nine at that) fell to the San Diego Padres, 7-5.

And todays lesson, fellow proles: Dont expect the Giants soft, gooey schedule to save you. They are someone elses soft, gooey schedule these days.

RECAP: Giants tie it, but Padres strike back for 7-5 victory
The loss, which manager Bruce Bochy stiff-upper-lipped into a tribute to the teams fight, was another one of those games that make a better box score than a show. Pitches from the normally reliable Matt Cain that were hittably up. Balls thrown hither and yon and not always with a sense of purpose. In many ways, a sloppy bit of work at the same time that the Arizonii (cq) were polishing off the earthquake-shattered Washingtons.

We wanted to say earthquake-shattered because, geological snots that we are, we wanted to point out to our Atlantic brethren what cherries they actually were Tuesday.

But we digress.

The Giants most strident defenders point to their dog-eared, half-tattered pocket schedules and see Dodgers and Rockies and Padres and Astros and Cubs, and say, Oh my! And then they watch events like Tuesday and revert to Oh my God!

IN short, you cannot look ahead and predict the Giants future based on the likely futures of their scheduled foes. They have now needed 38 innings and more than 12 hours to beat two of the National Leagues worst teams once.

Giants Insider gallery: Ultimate high, to ultimate low

And as part of a greater whole, the shards of Giant baseball are proof that as enemies go, they need look no further than the fogged-up shower mirrors.

Bochy laughed at the suggestion that his team was better off a year ago when it was 6 games behind the Padres than it is now, two games behind the Diamondbacks, and he is right to do so. Even an idiot can see that 4 games of difference with 32 to play matter a pretty good deal.

On the other hand, the standings must be among this teams least nettlesome concerns. Oh, the rest of us and keep track of every Paul Goldschmidt at-bat and every J.J. Putz save opportunity, but more than ever before, the Giants issues are themselves, and therefore the only thing that should be gnawing at their souls.

When they pitch, they dont hit. When they hit, they dont catch. And when they play the NL East, theyre hopeless. If you want to feel good about your team and your world, they wont see another of those teams this year unless they reach the postseason.

But the Giants have bigger issues. There arent enough healthy ones. The ones that are semi-healthy are producing only sporadically. The dog days have been Rottweilers, and the Giants have been carrying a pork wallet.

In short, never mind the schedule. Keep your head down, and worry about whats in front of you. A team that is one run short of being the worst team in baseball, and is on a pace to score the 10th lowest number of runs, and third lowest in a season of 140 games or more IN TEAM HISTORY!

Worry about the disabled list, or the sudden error binge, or whatever you want. Just dont avert your gaze and start thinking that other teams will be of service to your team. This is a Giants problem, solely and completely. If they dont fix them, they neither will, nor should, reach October.

Ray Ratto is a columnist for CSNBayArea.com

The real issue that lingers now that OJ Simpson is a free man

The real issue that lingers now that OJ Simpson is a free man

O.J. Simpson is free. The system as it is defined by those who run it in the case of the Nevada Parole Board, worked.

But the issue that lingers is whether we can free ourselves of him. That system is far more amorphous, arbitrarty and essentially unfair. And in its own revolting way, it works too.

The O.J. market has always been bullish. The old cliché that people can’t get enough no matter how much you shovel at them is more true for him than for any other sports figure of the last 50 years. More than Tiger Woods. More than LeBron James. More than Michael Jordan. More than all of them.

And now his parole hearing, televised and streamed by every outlet except Home & Garden Television, proved it again. He will never not be O.J.

But he is also 70. He is also planning to go to Florida and be with his family, based on what he told the parole board Thursday. He has assiduously avoided the media in his nine years in Lovelock, and if his family is providing the support it pledges, it will do its utmost to keep him from our prying eyes as he enters his dotage.

There is nothing we have that can do him any good. We have eaten all the forms of O.J. there are, culminating in the Emmy-award winning documentary on him, and finally, his release from prison. If he is wise as well as smart, here’s nothing left of his life but re-airs.

So the question becomes not so much whether he can leave fame alone, or whether fame can leave him alone. Our national appetite is poor on the topic of leaving people be, let alone deciding enough is enough. The fame we make for people gorges, purges and gorges again, in a hideous cycle that demeans all involved.

In sum, O.J. Simpson can, if he is paying attention to the value of normalcy, end his addiction to fame. I have far more serious doubts about fame and its addiction to him.

Quietest time in sports yields a pair of idiotic fascinations

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Quietest time in sports yields a pair of idiotic fascinations

Some time not that very long ago, someone in sports management who will almost certainly spend all of eternity bobbing for razor-studded apples in a pool of lava saw an opportunity in the phrase, “The quietest time in sports.” And decided to fill it with filth.
 
It is believed to begin right after the end of the NBA Finals, although that artificial start date has been extended through free agency now that the NBA’s principal entertainment vehicle is the burning of money. It used to be right after the Major League Baseball All-Star Game, though now it has been extended backward. And it ends roughly at the beginning of NFL and/or college training camps, depending on where you live and which of those two beasts you profess your God to be.
 
But let’s get back to the management succubus who has set us on the path that has led inexcusably to the current point. The idea that baseball no longer holds the interest or attention spans of the young, cool and inadequately trained in the value of money is now accepted as fact, and as any marketing nitwit will tell you, nature abhors a vacuum.
 
So here’s what we’ve got. Floyd Mayweather and Conor McGregor in what is very simply a lazy-stereotype-laden comedy tour that isn’t funny let alone even mildly convincing. They have both been on the stage too long, with a month still to go before the final shame-off August 26, where they simply enter the arena, stand with their backs to each other at the ring rope and spend 45 minutes trying to target-spit into the eyes of the high-rollers. Why the promoters didn’t just muzzle Mayweather and McGregor and use actual professionals like Key and Peele and Aisling Bea and Ed Byrne to work the crowds for a million per is simply a lack of imagination at work.
 
Here’s what else we have. Our idiotic fascination for Lonzo Ball’s two best Summer League games being achieved wearing shoes other than those promoted by his father/huckster as though his skills and intelligence are all in his feet.
 
What this actually is, of course, is people using Lonzo’s momentary and mostly microscopic achievement to call LaVar a tedious swine without ever using his name or his product catalog because he, like McGregor and Mayweather, beats down crowds and calls it entertainment, and people have signed on in a weird backdoor way – by finding reasons to like the son as a weapon against the father.
 
Thus, Lonzo Ball gets to learn how to be a professional athlete of note while carrying the load of his father’s impression upon the nation as well as the loads of those who believe that sins of the father must revert to the son. Popularity’s dominant property is its corrosion, and Ball will have to have very fast feet and well-constructed shoes indeed to dance away from the rising tide of a bored fan base with an ax to grind.
 
It isn’t as instantly gratifying a train wreck as Mayweather-McGregor, but it is a triumph of the new marketing strategy of wholesale idiocy that diminishes the watcher as well as the watched.
 
Neither of these events are in and of themselves interesting. Mayweather-McGregor is simply a kangaroo boxing a bear because circus entertainment no longer has circuses as venues, and Ball’s summer bears almost no relationship to the true test of his career – how to be the best player on a terrible team and then make the adjustment to being the third best player on a rebuilding team.
 
Ball has a longer shelf life because of that single useful component, but it is made less rather than more interesting by the presence of his father, who is now indelibly part of the tale at a time when most parents leave their children to find their fortunes by the virtues of their skills and wits.
 
McGregor-Mayweather has the sole benefit of being cringeworthy both before, during and after the event, a month-long smear of degradation that reduces all involved, including those who buy the fight, into penitents, into rolling apologies. It is an event in which nobody gets out with any shred of dignity, with the single revolting example of the grisly accountant-beasts who will take the Internal Revenue’s cut immediately after the fight.
 
And if that isn’t Satan winning, then you don’t know how to score a game in which Satan plays on all the teams at once and sees to it that the game is scheduled in the middle of July because some client of his told him it was the best time of year for personal and professional disgrace with a scoreboard on the end of it.