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Pre-game nervous chatter

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I just bought a $50 bottle of champagne. It was something fancy, like Dom Perignon or Thunderbird Select. I don’t even like champagne that much, but it’s the principle of the thing. Feels right. I specifically picked out a 2002 vintage.

Don’t mistake this for hubris, though. This isn’t a jinx post. I have plans for the bottle should the unthinkable happen. In the event of a Giants collapse, I plan on either:

    a. throwing the unopened bottle into the Bay while screaming, "This is why we can’t have nice things! This is why we can’t have nice things!", or…

    b. putting the entire bottle into a beer bong and wasting it on a couple of gulps before kicking off a drunken rampage that will leave no window unkicked, no wall unpunched.

This is awful. This is fantastic. This is the most nervous I’ve ever been about anything related to sports. I can’t string two thoughts together without thinking about Cliff Lee and Tim Lincecum in between. I tear up when I read things like this:

What would it mean to Mike Krukow and the #SFGiants family? "Two words," said Kruk. "Mike Murphy."

Mike Murphy has been with the Giants organization since they moved to San Francisco. He hasn’t had time to grieve over Game Six because he’s still grieving over McCovey lining out to Bobby Richardson. There can’t be anyone in the world who wants one more win than Mike Murphy.

I’ve had three or four different Journey songs stuck in my head for about three weeks now. I was pretty sure I didn’t like Journey before the postseason. Now it’s the soundtrack to my overactive brain. Maybe I’ll fire up M.A.M.E. and play the Journey video game to help clear my mind. The Neal Schon jetpack level always messed with me.

I remember the feeling of "one more win" that came along with the final regular season series against the Padres. I remember how it felt when Matt Cain was crushed on Friday night. I remember the nausea that came when Barry Zito pitched his way off the postseason roster on Saturday. I don’t want to feel that again. Except unless

This isn’t a good time for coherent thoughts. The Giants are, what, 80% favorites to take the series now? Not nearly enough. Not nearly enough. An unspeakable collapse is statistically more likely than, say, a Jonathan Sanchez triple. I’ve seen that happen. It’s possible.

I feel like Red Sox fans must have felt before Game Four of the 2004 World Series. I feel like Cardinals fans must have after Game Four of the 1985 World Series.

I feel like it’s the moment before the Large Hadron Collider is turned on, and I’m a scientist who did a back-of-the-envelope calculations showing that it’s ever so possible that we’re about to create a black hole.

I feel like I’m on some weird Aztec version of Let’s Make a Deal, where there’s piles of gold in one box, and a priest in the other box who is waiting to carve my heart out for the glory of Huitzilopochtli.

I feel like a Giants fan. And I’m not sure what that feels like yet. And I hope that warm, moist feeling is just lukewarm coffee I spilled on my lap after a nervous twitch.