This Just In: Winning a World Series Is Hard.

Hey, you know what? Winning a World Series is hard. Really hard. Like, metaphysically, cosmically difficult. As Buster Ballgame would tell you, you put in the work, you take care of the little things, and finally, you put yourself in a position to (hopefully,) get some dumb luck, like home runs that bounce off the top of the wall and become doubles.
You have to be healthy. Your karma has to be healthy. You have to be focused. But not tight. You have to have fun. But also be locked in like Sandoval in a buffet line. All those things happened to this team, this city. But it wasn't just the players who did it. It was you. Celebrate accordingly.

This championship wasn't just won on the field. Everyone - everyone - had a part to play. From Sabean bringing in just the right mix of mutts to you, sitting on your couch wearing your lucky socks for the third week in a row (please wash them now,) everything had to break just right. Think about it:

The bums outside Mays Field - they stepped it up this year, y'know? The guy tootling on the harmonica, right by the bridge? He sounded pretty dang good. The signs were a cut above. Spelled correctly. Funny. Frank Chu appeared (unsurprisingly,)  right when-and-where you needed him to.

The bums inside Mays Field - best #*$ng fans in the world. Knowledgable. Smart. And above all, loyal. You had to be if you wanted to survive The Torture. Who flies to Texas with their own Crazy Crab outfit? Who does this? Who?

The bums from Petco Park - Really, the toughest team we faced in the playoffs was the San Diego Padres. Thank you for the trial by fire, Pads. It was the crucible that made us strong. Also, thanks for completely gagging in August.
  - Love, A Bunch Of Guys With "San Francisco" Stiched On Their Uniforms.

The greatest broadcast team in sports - The first moment I heard Jon Miller broadcasting from Scottsdale this spring, I got chills up and down my spine. My whole body relaxed. He is human Xanax; the sound of the San Francisco Giants. And really, that was enough for me. All I really wanted from this season was a few fun afternoons with Jon, Kruk, Kuip and Dave. But they gave us so much more. (Oh, and Jon was absolutely HORRIBLE that day, just so bad it was hilarious. It's like he was facing the wrong way in the booth. I guess broadcasters need spring training, too. Yet he still pulled it off with style and good humor.) Marty "The Anti-Jim-Rome" Lurie. And how about Dave Flemming? Has that guy had a weird career already? Barry's 600th...and his mike goes out. And his call on Renteria's shot last night...if he didn't sound like Pimply-Faced Teen from The Simpsons before, he certainly did then. And if that call doesn't make you tear up, something's wrong. God I love those guys. Good hard slider.

That Guy From Queens Who Always Calls In To KNBR - You just know he was standing on his head, balancing a Willie Mays bobblehead on his right foot and invoking the gods. You could feel that extra karmic burst from 3,000 miles away. You helped, Guy From Queens.

Tony Bennett - The man is eighty-four years old. And he walks out there and busts the high notes? What? Then flies to D.C. and does the same thing in front of "six billion" the next day? Respect.

Steve Perry - A few years back, there hadn't been a Stanley Cup Final in Canada for a while, and when "O, Canada" was sung, the whole Edmonton crowd stood and spontaneously sung. Check it out - it'll give you chills. Steve leading our crowd in "Lights" was just as spontaneous, and just as chill-inducing. You can't manufacture that stuff. Awesome.

Gavin Newsom - I know. I know. Stay with me. Cody Ross' bat flies into the stands, pegs a little kid (Dave Flemming's neighbor, of course,) and yet, who's there to make sure the kid's ok? Just the Mayor of San Francisco. Tell me baseball isn't cosmically weird. Tell me the stars weren't starting to align. Tell me.

The Two Little Old Ladies Who Sat Behind Us At That One Game -  I took my wife to her first game this year. Which she loved. But the part that sealed the deal, that let her know - hey, it's ok to unabashedly root for these guys - was the two little old ladies behind us, who were as knowledgeable and funny as any fans I've ever been around. Thanks, Somebody's Moms.

Every Ticket-Taker, Vendor, Maintenance Person, Usher and Anyone Else I Forgot at Mays Field - for obvious reasons. Also, beer.

The World Champion San Francisco Giants - Also for obvious reasons, especially the obvious reason of "I really love saying that."

Finally, Me. - We all had our superstitions, rabbits' feet, avatars, what have you. Here's mine: During spring training, Schulman wrote a column about the boys returning to the locker room, and mentioned the fact that Wilson had learned to play dominoes so he could hang with the Latin players. (This is what I'm talking about, people. The little things that turn a room full of rich guys into a team.) But apparently, Wilson didn't learn to play dominoes very well. Because Uribe strolls in, and the first thing he says is, "Where Wilson? More money for Uribe!" Which was my battle cry throughout this beautiful, magical season. Every time he had a big hit, I'd scream "MORE MONEY FOR URIBE!" Did it work? It didn't not work. I'd like my ring, please. Hell, rings all around.

Congratulations. I'm sitting here weeping at my desk.

I look like an idiot. And I do. Not. Care.