Article

Goat Trails

by Ryan Masters

Oct. 31, 2014—I am standing in the rain at the corner of McAllister and Hyde in San Francisco surrounded by my people—that is to say, hundreds of thousands of Giants fans. We are watching an intrepid drunkard. He clambers up a lamppost wearing a floppy orange hat that is cleverly constructed to resemble a squid eating his head. He proceeds to bait a growing posse of cops in the street below. We find this infinitely amusing because we are cold, wet and bored. Everyone directs his or her camera-phone at the spectacle. “Look ma, I’m on Facebook!” the man shrieks from his temporary throne.

At some point in the fall of 2010 I’m fairly certain I meekly promised God I would never complain about the San Francisco Giants again if He would just grant us a World Series title. After that first magnificent win, I piously believed He had heard my petulant prayer squeaking up through the roar of humankind’s incessant earthly demands. I experienced a period of deep contentment.

Of course, I am only human. By the 2011 All-Star break I was already wailing and grousing and gnashing my teeth like a Philistine. Then we swept the Tigers in 2012 for our second ring and I pranced about, haughty as Little Lord Fauntleroy. But lo, 2013 found me back on my knees and baring my breast to the unknowable heavens, searching for answers. Cue 2014.

Today, I recognize that I am very much like this man in the clownish squid hat, perched precariously high on a San Francisco streetlight with police officers swarming below. The joy of being on top is fleeting. So this time, I am going to enjoy the moment with an understanding born from experience that my lifelong love affair with the San Francisco Giants will continue to have its ups and downs. But like Squid Boy, I am currently on one hell of a high.

Speaking of high, due to the parade route’s proximity to the Tenderloin, the city’s large population of schizophrenics and terminal junkies is well represented. Many of them roll wheeled suitcases packed with God-knows-what behind them like tourists en route from Hell. They appear entirely unconcerned with the spectacle. They are playing a game far more dramatic than baseball.

As the first float finally appears, a riotous cheer erupts down on Market and rolls up McAllister to where I stand. The black-and-orange throng bleats and gobbles and squeals. Amid the Giants jerseys, shirts, hoodies and hats I see demon masks and the hats of witches, Dios-de-los-Muertos-inspired skeletons, pimp costumes and “sexy nurse” get ups. There are faceless men in body stockings, gibbering aliens and pandas—pandas, pandas everywhere. Halloween has lent the procession a fittingly macabre and psychedelic atmosphere. I love San Francisco.

Lou Seal leads the parade. The Giants’ mascot bears an unsettling resemblance to Barry Bonds during the final years of his career. While I’ve never been super pumped by the shenanigans of Lou Seal, I have to admit I’m feeling it today. Regardless, I still think that Crazy Crab, the Giants’ 1970s-era anti-mascot, deserves a resurrection—if only to once again be the target of our mirthful hatred and abuse.

Here comes the SFPD, the Cal Marching Band and then three beloved broadcasters—Mike Krukow, Duane Kuiper and Jon Miller. Back when he was a Giants pitcher in the 1970s, Kruk used to drill Crazy Crab with his rosin bag on a daily basis. The poor thing was reportedly terrified of him. Love those guys.

Celebrity guests of honor arrive. Wrestling superstar Daniel Bryan—whose highly unimaginative tagline, “Yes!”, was appropriated by Hunter Pence this year—earns his own float. So does Metallica (I thought they were from the East Bay? I wonder how Oakland feels about this). Yet Steve Perry, former frontman for Journey and arguably the most dedicated celebrity Giants fan in the world, is relegated to the back ladder of an amphibious vehicle packed with members of the Giants Community Fund. It looks like he just hitched a ride in the parade.

Then there are the city officials, the media, the corporate partners, the owner groups, and various other well-connected denizens of the Giants universe. And there are employees…miles of employees. They wave to us and we wave back.

Legendary players make appearances in shiny convertibles: Willie Mays, Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, Orlando Cepeda, Dave Dravecky, Jeff Leonard, Felipe Alou and yes, Barry Bonds (looking significantly less Lou Seal-like these days). It blows my mind that a World Series ring eluded all of those greats during their time in San Francisco—yet here we are with three in five years.

And of course, there are the men of the hour: The 2014 World Champion San Francisco Giants. Peppered throughout the parade, the players roll by atop double-decker buses looking alternately bemused, exhausted and thrilled—and in the case of Hunter Pence, thoroughly and lovably wacko. Michael Morse flexes like Hercules. Sergio Romo sticks out his tongue, flashes a “three” hand sign and lifts his jacket to reveal a t-shirt that reads, “I have issues.” Buster Posey smiles benignly, apparently waiting for it to just be over. The pandas go bonkers as Pablo Sandoval appears. When the crowd pleads with him to re-sign with the Giants next year, he smiles down at us like a sphinx. But the loudest cheers are reserved for NLCS and World Series MVP Madison Bumgarner. The 25-year-old legend from Hickory, North Carolina is dressed in a cheap, plastic poncho and rides in the back of a non-descript, flatbed truck. He looks at home.

By the time future of Hall of Fame manager Bruce Bochy rides by hoisting the 2014 World Series trophy, the crowd is satiated. I linger to watch the tail end of the parade disappear up McAllister and then begin trudging back into the Tenderloin.

As I hike back to my car, a haunted-looking young man asks me for a dollar. His front teeth are like rotten stalactites and his gummy skin is the color of cavefish. I decline to give him any money. He’s probably slammed enough crank for today. He doesn’t look surprised or disappointed when I say no. Instead he looks back the way I came and asks, “How about those Giants, huh?”

As I continue up Hyde Street in the rain, I decide I should probably start being a little more discriminating about the prayers I hurl willy-nilly into the universe. As I mentioned, life—like baseball and drunkards on lampposts—is full of ups and downs. The key is learning to appreciate the ride—even if it isn’t always a victory parade.