Said hosannas and imprecations, of course, are given rise to based on our own always subjective standards, measured relative to our own wildly fluctuating expectations. I know you think I'm trying to set multiple multisyllabic records here, but bear with me; I'll settle down as I get into the rhythm of this.

Let's start with our overall expectations as Our Boys unwound the kinks in the hot Arizona sun this past March. We read the preseason reports anxiously, as pundit after pundit dissed the Orange and Black, tossing away our hard-won 1997 Western Division gonfalon as so much ticker-tape chaff, as the birdseed from our chubby cousin Bernice's wedding to that unctuous used-car salesman from Moline by way of Bakersfield. But I digress.

We Giants fans were anxious too this spring, but then we're always anxious; it's our job. We knew that the 1997 miracle-makers had about used all of the chewing gum and baling wire in the northern half of the state, and we knew that our hated division rivals (now counting four) had spent the winter throwing money at buffed-and-cut hardball heroes from across the land. We knew that the hard-eyed prognosticators of the baseball press were looking at the same facts we were, albeit through somewhat less orange-tinted lenses.

So what did we hope for 1998? Yes, hope, not expect. Our expectations, as you well know by now, were dire and depressing. We Giants fans do that, but we compensate by our hopes and dreams, which are always things of beauty these days. We hoped Barry, the cornerstone, would confound the legions of naysayers and give us 1993 again, all season long, only maybe even better this time. We hoped young lefty Estes would throw the same nasty stuff he did all last year, but more often over the plate. We hoped the alien living in Jater's wrists would make himself comfortable for another year. We hoped that the youngsters (Billy Moo, Richie Aurilia, and that baldheaded guy behind the plate) would show us that the flashes of the year before were but a warmup.

Whoo! Writing about all this hope, in the past tense no less, is making me dizzy. No, I wasn't even close to being done. A truckload, an 18-wheeler of hopes, we had. We hoped, against hope itself, that our pitching staff would confound us by not falling apart in a shower of nuts and bolts. We looked past Shawn and Woody Rueter and saw Grandpa Simpson warming up in the pen. Darwin and Gardner and that prissy guy who used to wear that foul Blue uniform, all nearly old enough to get in cheap at the movie theater. We saw a bullpen minus the Shooter, his place filled by hard-throwing but erratic Robb "102" Nen. We wondered if Julian Tavarez would live up to the whistling-in-the-dark hype thrown about after the Matty trade. We wondered if Jeff Kent could be a real cleanup hitter, month in and month out, or whether he would return to hitting like a second baseman and fielding like, well, a third baseman pressed into duty at the keystone. We wondered how long we could stay afloat sporting fourth outfielders in right and center. Lastly, we wondered which side of his brain enfant terrible GM Brian Sabean was going to get up on when deal-making time rolled in.

So if you're still kicking yourself for not getting the household projects done or the bills paid last spring, cut yourself some slack. You had a lot on your mind.

Then the season started. Great, high hopes, some pleasant surprises, some major and minor disappointments. We stayed in the race through the All-Star Break, close behind the mildly surprising and talent-stocked Padres. Giant-killer Kevin Brown proved worth every dollar the Pads paid for him, and the Padres' relentless winning ways combined with a severe July swoon threw the Giants' hopes of winning the title definitively into the dumper. A wild card seemed within our grasp, however, until an August muddle followed the July swoon. Then, in the last hot, sultry breaths of September, the bats came to life and the tattered arms of the pitching staff held on long enough to ride Barry Bonds' usual money-time stretch drive (Are you listening, Noah? I'd just like to say: You are wrong.) down to the last day of the regular season, when the cruel, vindictive Gods of Baseball decided that enough long-suffering Giants fans had become brave enough to bare their oft-wounded baseball hearts and become once again vulnerable to the kind of pain only Giants baseball can dish out, and turned off the faucet all too suddenly, with the once-disdained, now-longed-for wild card pennant fluttering inches (inches, hell! I felt the felt of that banner touch my fingertips) from our collective grasp.

I could go into more detail, but as said before Richard is covering that angle as only he can. I will instead look up and down the roster and deconstruct, if you will, which cylinders were humming, and which needed a gap adjustment or more. The automotive metaphor is particularly galling; imagine a finely-honed race car that just wasn't honed fine enough, allowing just enough of a hiccup in the stretch drive to allow the Cubbies to nudge by us for the place trophy. A spark plug gap a half-mil too wide, the timing off by a tenth of a degree would be enough to cost a tenth of a horsepower and a crucial car length.

• Catching: Nobody really expected Brian Johnson to hit like he did in the stretch of '97, given his rather pedestrian career numbers. We hoped, though, and we hoped for more than he gave us in '98. Except for that one nuclear hot streak in midseason where he seemed to go yard twice a day, even the power was absent. Take away those two weeks, and we got Manwaring numbers from Bri. Goes to show that even third-tier power hitters are a feast or famine lot. On the other side of the platoon, Brent Mayne gave us some pretty good numbers with the bat, but behind the plate he reminded me uncomfortably of catching's answer to Julian Tavarez: you just never knew when he would blow up back there. Overall: we had glimpses of a really fine (at least for the money and talent given up for them) lefty-righty platoon, but each player had flaws big enough that you couldn't call them a plus this past year. Given, however, that our division rivals were trotting out our man Manwaring, the rotting hulk of Charles Johnson's bat (and, Dodger fans, shut up already about Johnson's pitch calling helping the pitching staff by any noticeable amount; it didn't happen), and former Piazza caddy Carlos Hernandez, you really couldn't call them a minus either. Wash.

• First Base: Ladies and gentlemen, The Alien has left the building. J.T. Snow was quite understandably preoccupied through the first half of the year (for which I grant him all the slack he needs, if I could) but his production in the second half of the year was nothing special either. As statheads well know, his production for the whole of '98 was a lot closer to his career numbers than '97 was. It's time to start finding the kind of stud first base prospect that the other clubs in the division seem to be stinky with, and get ready to pop him in the starting lineup just as soon, or possibly a tad before, he's ready. The unexpected fine hitting of Charlie Hayes (and his slow improvement up from godawful to so-so with the glove at a new position) only masks slightly the fact that, with typical Jater production, we're spotting the opposition two or three strokes a round compared to the other first basemen in the league. Further, the Joe Carter and Ellis Burks deals could be seen as direct results of Jate's failure to fill the number-five lineup slot adequately. If Jacob Cruz or Darin Blood turn into passable major leaguers, we'll remember that.

• Second Base: Ah, Jeffrey, what a fine year you had. Jeff Kent was damned with faint praise by a lot of Giants fans (including me; my first comment on the Matty trade was an e-mail to my brother announcing that Matty had been given away for "three stiffs"). In return, he gave us a full, healthy 1997 at production rates equaling his career numbers, and for an encore he gave us five months of 1998 with a significant jump in OBP, always his Achilles' heel. His defense is still nothing to write home about, but it's nothing to cringe at, either. Getting 30-plus homers and a .900-plus OPS from a second baseman went a huge way to take the sting out of having such a crappy-hitting first baseman.

• Shortstop: No matter who you are, shortstop was a pleasant surprise for the Giants this year. If you followed the Giants through the newspapers or the acclaimed Baseball Insiders, Richie Aurilia was a surprise semi-sensation as he flirted with .300 for much of the year until a late-year slump sent his average down to a still-passable .266. If you were some form of stathead, you were surprised by well-traveled Proven Veteran Rey Sanchez' failure to utterly suck. In the final analysis, the Giant shortstops were about equal in performance, with Sanchez' small edges in batting average, OBP, and glove work set off by Aurilia's 9 taters and .400-plus slugging average. One hopes, however, that the younger Aurilia will take a few more walks next year and get into double figures in homers. That, combined with Sanchez' expected return to suckitude, should give Aurilia the edge next year. One hopes, though, that Brian Sabean sees the same thing I do at the shortstop position. It ain't broke, Brian.

• Third Base: Bill Mueller got his chance, full-time, at age 27 and didn't disappoint. Sure, he disappointed us a little bit by slipping down from the .340 batting average he held until his June Swoon, but his final numbers were pretty good, flirting with .400 in both OBP and slugging average, and playing his usual fine defense. I would take him in a heartbeat over anyone the Dodgers trotted out last year, and I'll take his future over aging Ken Caminiti's any time. He's no Vinny Castilla with the bat, but I'm not that sure Vinny is either, you know? Oh, and as sheepish as I feel saying it, he was better than that bald guy down in Arizona this year, too.

• Outfield: I'm sure many Giants fans were thinking the same thing I was those two times with the bases loaded against the Cubbies: "C'mon Barry, do it this one time and shut up Noah and all those other nabobs of negativism for good." He didn't, of course, which means we have to listen to that crap for at least the next few years, when Barry might have aged enough to prove them half right. But c'mon: he tagged that second one right on the nose. It's just bad luck (or not, say the Baseball Gods knowingly) that it went right at Sosa.

  [I apologize for breaking in on Tom, here, because the lad doesn't deserve it, but, for those who need to know, Noah, a fairly recent addition to the Giants newsgroup, is also the resident Bonds-hating troll -- which is to say that despite an abundance of evidence contrary to his position, and despite the well-intended, before-we-caught-on-to-his-act attempts at providing education and gentle, persuasive argument, he persists in sharing his opinion -- as though we hadn't responded at all -- that Bonds is the proverbial overpaid, choking slacker. This is the first time I can remember making a declaration like this in writing, because one thing the newsgroup, and EEEEEE!, are about is a variety of opinions; no law prohibits disagreement. Still, refusal to listen should be a crime -- the punishment for which is not being listened to. Therefore, and for what it's worth, Noah, as of this moment, has been shrouded: he no longer has any kind of voice in EEEEEE! At least the other Bonds-haters are more or less willing to listen. -- GP]

  Barry was once again Barry. We got the .300 average, "only" 37 taters (and that's the only thing that bugs me about the McGwire/Sosa thing this year, the fact that 37 dingers now merits an "only"), the usual 1.000-plus OPS, the usual, give or take, bouts of petulance and apparent loafingness. Bonds was hurting from a series of minor and not-minor aches pretty much all year, which dragged his numbers down from MVP levels to "mere" top-ten-in-the-league stuff. Unfortunately, nagging injuries are what happens to players in their mid-thirties, and this more than anything else is what causes superstar numbers to decline steadily. Bonds' decline so far has been mercifully gradual, but (save one more probably "last hurrah" brilliant season in the next three or so) that's the direction he's going. So enjoy it while you can, sports fans: make sure you catch him in person enough times to you can tell your grandchildren about him. Oh, and one last time with gusto: Noah, you are wrong.

  In the rest of the outfield, we got a surprisingly fine two-thirds of a season from Darryl Hamilton, before he was unceremoniously dealt to the Rocks for Burks. Fortunately, Hambone's .400 OBP (now there's a phrase I never thought I'd say) was covered by a really fine two months of Marvin Benard, whom I've rooted for ever since I watched him on the 1992 Everett Giants. Marvin's hot streak will, for those not sure yet, push him past the immortal Chad Fonville as the finest ballplayer on the 1992 team, unless Benji Simonton suddenly gets really hot. Stan Javier was, well, Stan Javier, the ultimate Fourth Outfielder. That he was our Third, and at times our Second Outfielder only underscores why the Giants were watching at home when October came around. I'll get around to Ellis Burks in a bit.

  Have I forgotten anyone? What's that yell from Section 37? Richard, is that you? Carlos, is that you I hear crunching on chicken bones? How could I forget the one and only JFC? I couldn't -- I was just pulling your collective chain a bit. Among baseball cognoscenti on not just the Giants newsgroup but team newsgroups across the land, the trade of minor-leaguer Darin Blood for decrepit pile of crepitude Joe Fucking Carter was considered to be such a horrible trade (yes, for the Giants) that fans of the other clubs were posting on the Giants newsgroups to offer condolences. Never did proffered hand of friendship sting so. Carter, considered seriously overrated even in his prime, was so far past it that he had already announced his plans to retire after the year. His unrivaled capacity for making outs on offense rivaled only by his capacity for not making them with the glove, Carter was all set up to take the Giants right into the tank with him.

  Well, Giants fans, is that what happened? You howler monkeys up in Section 37, is that what happened? It was not. In the absolute, irrevocable, penultimate, ultimate proof of the existence of Earnest Ragging, it did not. Okay, at first, it did play out that way. In his first month as a Giant, JFC did in fact suck. He sucked badly, which is to say he sucked extremely well. Some players pull a suck muscle; Joe tore his anterior cruciate suck ligament, tore it clean in half. Words fail to describe how indescribably awful JFC was that first month. He was so awful, he was benched in favor of just about anybody, this despite the fact that Just About Anybody's (that's you, Stan and Marvin and let's not forget Alex Diaz; all right, let's forget him just the same) substandard production was the reason we hired the Round Mound of RBIound (if I can take a little poetic license and run down to the corner with it for a 40-ounce of Olde English 800) from the Baltimore Orioles in the first place.

  And then, something happened. I'll tell you what happened, O ye short of faith: Giants fans came, first by ones and twos, then by the dozens, then by the hundreds and thousands. They came out to the 'Stick specifically to rag on Joe Freakin' Carter. They ragged loudly and in deadly Earnest. You Suck, JFC, was the collective cry. Go and darken our outfield no more, they cried.

  And then what happened? Do you even need to ask? Do I need to go over Earnest Ragging again, for the remedial class? Sigh. Earnest Ragging, the principle thereof, states that when a Giants fan sincerely and earnestly rags on a player, that player will then turn around and do something wonderful, for the sole purpose of making said Giants fan look like a bloomin' idiot. But, Giants Fans Who Would Look Like Idiots for the sake of the Boys, don't forget the corollary: if the rag is not earnest, if done with the purpose of bringing forth brilliance, it doesn't work. The ragee with henceforth continue to suck. Don't even argue with me; it's a proven fact.

  As evidence, I offer JFC of the San Francisco Giants, September 1998. I offer the fact that I saw three Giants games in person after JFC joined the SFG, each time ragging lustily and in deadly earnest. Three times JFC hit a homer in the midst of my rag. Three of the first five homers JFC hit for the SFG, in fact, were with your author in attendance, duly explaining to all within earshot just exactly why and how much JFC did verily suck.

  In September JFC did truly fail to suck. In fact, he sucked so badly (that is, performed the feat of sucking quite poorly) that he raised his offensive production, bested by half of the Giants pitching staff in August, to more than respectable numbers for his Giant career: 105 at-bats, 7 homers, .295 average, .884 OPS. Along with Bonds, Benard, Burks, and Kent, JFC was a prime mover in that glorious, almost-was run at the postseason.

  But I tell you this: his fielding still sucks. So there.

And speaking of sucking, can we talk pitching?

I saved this for last because it gave me a headache every time I tried to think about it.

You don't really need a brilliant analyst to deconstruct the '98 Giants pitching, and you don't need me either. The Giants' pitching could really be summed up in a couple of sentences: The bullpen was the best in the league for a large chunk of the year. The starting pitching, by contrast, blew chunks.

A sophomore slump could have been expected from wunderkind Shawn Estes. We got one. Shawn still had control problems and great stuff, but we got more of the former and less of the latter, until he got hurt. Then when he came back, he was just plain lousy. Hey, it happens. He's still got great stuff, and he'll probably be pretty good again next year. But don't count on 19-5 again, maybe never.

Rueter pitched great in September, and won 16 games. That's not bad. A 4.36 ERA's not bad in the modern era either. But it's not good.

Russ Ortiz pitched pretty well for a rookie, really well if you take out the one or two really bad innings he threw every start.

Mark Gardner didn't fade after the All-Star Break, and finally broke through the 12-win barrier, setting a career high... of 13 wins.

Danny Darwin punched out Barry Bonds.

Orel Hershiser was a .500 pitcher.

The Giants starters, to a man, did a pretty good job... for a number-four starter. Except Darwin. (He's about a number-six starter, in my book.) If you want to win, I mean. Not only were there no number-one guys on the club this year, there weren't any twos or threes either. This is why we didn't win, right here. We came pretty damn close, though, and you can thank the bullpen for that. You can thank Robb Nen, and the tweaking Perranoski did to his mechanics, teaching him that little shuffle-step. I am amazed that anyone could break 80 with a delivery like that, and Robb broke 100... once in a while, anyway. Dude's a freak of nature. You can thank Steve Reed, who was damn near unhittable, at least until Sabes traded him and his arm promptly fell off. You can thank Rich Rodriguez and John Johnstone and, yes, Julian Tavarez for some pretty good relief pitching for the most part. Yeah, they faded toward the end, there, but those guys were out there by the sixth inning pretty much every night, and that takes its toll.

No, you don't have to thank Jim Poole. Or Alvin Morman. In fact, a few well-chosen raspberries would be okay by me.

Well, we've just about completed our tour of the clubhouse. Let's trot upstairs and poke around the corner office and sift through the fair-haired Boy General Manager's rubble and see what drops out.

Brian Sabean actually reminds me a lot of one of his key acquisitions, Julian Lennon -- er, Tavarez, I mean. You can see that the guy's got world-class GM "stuff" (check that White Sox trade last year) but, with all that stuff, why does he act so damn weird? Why does he scare the hell out of me every time he gets on the phone? Why do we all spend so much time pleading with him, in vain, not to trade for Joe Carter, or Shawon Dunston, or whoever the Overrated, Over-the-Hill Hulk of the week is?

We're Giants Fans. It's our job.

Wait, that one's already been played.

But seriously, he does remind me of Tavarez. He's fun to watch, if you like horror movies. And some of his trades, by gosh and by golly, work out pretty well. Geez, Joe Carter did (in September, anyway) pretty much exactly what we hired him for. Ellis Burks (see, told you) gave us the number-five hitter we lacked ever since the Alien got repo'ed from Jater's boyish grin. And I'm convinced Sabes knew something we didn't about Steve Reed's arm, and John Hart didn't know it either.

Oh, wait, I forgot: Alvin Morman.

Sorry, I can't explain that one no-how.

Shawon Dunston I can explain, I just don't really want to.

If you total it up, Sabean's season still is a dead ringer for Julian's. Pretty good, not good enough to win it all by himself, but we could have done a lot worse. And all we had to give up for Sabean was Bob Quinn.

I'm still waiting for Sabean to go nuclear on the ump, though. That should be fun to watch.

Well, those were the Giants, my friend, we thought they'd never end. It was the Best of Times, it was the Worst of Times. Told you I'd work that in, Gregg.

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