I don’t have much time to recap the San Francisco Giants 3-0 loss to the Miami Marlins. I’m currently in union negotiations for the 27th hour out of the last 37 hours, and it’s halftime of the Golden State Warriors NBA Finals game, which I’m also writing about.
But while I did watch the Giants futile attempt at playing baseball — with one eye, admittedly — I neither watched it well enough to offer a comprehensive recap, nor do I have the time to do so, nor did the game warrant it.
So I’m going to tell you a story instead.
When I was a kid — maybe six or so — I wet the bed. It happens to all of us. Some more than others, but we don’t need to dive too deeply into that.
I’d wet the bet a bit that week and, to be frank, I was over it.
So I disputed it. Decided I didn’t actually do it.
But you can’t unpee a bed. Instead you need a scapegoat.
I searched for one. Searched north and south.
Couldn’t choose a pet; they all lived outdoors. Couldn’t choose a sibling; they were all older and wiser. No one would believe me with either.
So I chose the one person I deemed could have plausibly peed in my bed, and pinned the blame fairly on their shoulders.
God peed my bed, I nonchalantly declared to my poor mother (who did not deserve this treatment), as I marched the micturated-upon sheets to the laundry room.
No, he didn’t, she informed me.
Yes, he did, I confidently rebutted.
Back and forth we went until a line in the sand needed to be drawn. And my mother, for her gentle and loving exterior, can draw a line in the sand with the world’s greatest sand-line drawers.
So she drew the line in the sand, and the sand was the friend’s house I intended to go see a movie at that night, and the line was that I could not go until I admitted that it was I, and not god, that peed in my previously innocent little twin bed.
But I held firm.
God peed in my bed then, and as god is my witness, I maintain that he peed in my bed to this day, even as I detail the part of the story that involves me very clearly making it up.
And so I didn’t go to my friend’s house. I didn’t watch the movie. I stayed home and I pouted, because I was being punished for god’s silly and spiteful decision to piss on my Buzz Lightyear sheets.
Those were my actions, and those were my consequences, and I learned to live with them, even if I’m still grumping about it more than 25 years later.
Anyway, the Giants played poorly. They had just three hits. They brought in their closer, Camilo Doval, in the sixth inning, which backfired. They let a guy they just traded away — Luke Williams — walk twice and make the biggest defensive play of the game, when he robbed the player that stole his spot on the roster — Luis González — of extra bases.
Those were their actions.
They lost 3-0.
That was their consequence.