In theory, a 60-game season means that every game matters more. It means that every moment is magnified, every mistake apocalyptic, every walk-off that much more exciting. It heightens the season, raises the stakes like a first-time screenwriter killing the mentor, makes you feel deep in your bones the import of everything that’s happening in front of you.
On the other hand, Alex Dickerson dropped a ball in the outfield and it was funny.
This isn’t a “You’re the one who’s mad; I’m actually laughing” situation. It’s a simple observation of how I felt watching that ball clang off Dickerson’s mitt, leading to an inevitable and extremely Coors Fieldy loss. Of course that happened. Of course it would doom the team. Of course, of course, of course.
And in theory, I should have been mad about it. It should have registered at a four on the Spilborghs scale, where a one is a 4-2 loss to the Padres and a ten represents the purest form of agony known in sport. Considering the stakes and the situation, considering that that misplay was the death knell of the lead the Giants had been nurturing for a few innings, it really should have mattered more.
It didn’t though, and there’s a couple reasons for that. First, as much as MLB wants to gussy it up and act like each game has a different meaning in a compressed season, they don’t. I’ve been watching regular season baseball for my entire life and I intuitively understand that the stakes of any one game before the last week or so of September just aren’t ever that high.
There are exceptions, of course. I felt like shit after the Spilborghs game. It seemed like the season was over. Yes, the 2009 Giants had had a good run, but with that one grand slam, Ryan Spilborghs ended their hopes of competing for a playoff spot. Bart Simpson took it frame-by-frame to show you exactly where the Giants’ playoff odds dropped to zero. It was brutal and heartrending.
A week later, the Giants and Rockies were tied again. The only meaning that game had was that it sucked for Giants fans to watch it. The Giants faded down the stretch and didn’t make the playoffs, but it wasn’t because Ryan Spilborghs hit a 14th inning grand slam with his team down 4-2. It was because the 2009 Giants couldn’t hit. So sure, that game felt like a big deal, but in the end it was just another loss.
But the real reason that Dickerson’s error yesterday didn’t really register is that the season just doesn’t feel real. It’s an off-kilter thing, zigging where it should be zagging and insisting that it’s called “Goose, Goose, Duck.” There aren’t any fans in the stands, and the pitchers are still in end-of-Spring-Training mode, and there’s just too many dang guys on the roster, and the whole thing just started in July, and who knows if they’ll be playing next week, and Buster Posey’s not there because he knows it’s a stupid idea for him to be there. It’s off, and wrong, and so the fuck what if a guy doesn’t catch a fly ball?
Yes, the Giants defense is an absolute mess, making boneheaded errors nightly. Yes, the pitching staff is still a work in progress. But no, it doesn’t carry the same weight it normally does. It’s neither a constant part of life for a full six months of the year nor a sprint in a playoff series. It’s just a thing that’s happening for as long as it gets to happen.
These games should feel like they matter more, but they don’t. They should be cemented into my memory as the thing that made 2020 feel almost normal again, but they’re not. They’re random and messy and not what I expect to see from Major League Baseball. Usually if a Giant dropped a fly ball, I’d be mad. This year, I just don’t have it in me. I don’t know if that’s a flaw in me, or a flaw in baseball, or a reflection of the world. It’s something, though. Events this year don’t mean the same thing as events in other years. It’s silly to pretend otherwise.