Fuck Yeah Tim Lincecum

At home, I had my own posters filled with K's. I'd pen in the dates of each strikeout. I'd sit on the floor and hold my breath there too. Echo Kruk's advice as if my voice could still reach him. Could ever reach him.

After two Cy Youngs, I inherited this blog and would write a recap every start. The highs and lows. Then more lows than highs. Then many, many lows. At the end, mostly lows. I couldn't follow him as easily on the Angels. I didn't want to follow him there. Angel red hurt just as much as Dodger blue. And seeing him continue to flounder hurt too much. Because I lived and died over every pitch. Every good start. Every bad start. Every swing and a miss, and every missed pitch. Every blister and bone spur. Every missed start and pulled botched outing. Through more questioning, always questioning: how much fault was the degenerative condition and how much was the mechanics? Who's to blame? His father, who taught him? Rags, who famously left him alone? Himself, for being too stubborn to change? To accept the inevitable? Who's to say? In videos compiled years afterward, "fans" arguing was it worth it, knowing he would fade away? How many "good years" were there? 2007-2011? 2008-2010? Is that it? Is that all you really count? How do you value a player? Even deep in his mechanical funk, he threw two no-hitters. Even falling off, combusting and collapsing, he's still a three-time World Series Champion. Is that really still not "good" enough? More arguments in the comments: do they really count if they're against the same team? against the padres? and should he really have made that 2014 team? He was the only player who wasn't used in the division and championship games. Did he throw too much? Was he pushed too hard? Will we ever know? Why are they so entitled to know?

They want him to be the next 55, but does Kyle need to be? I don't want him to be. On one hand, all the Kyles I've known in my life have disappointed me. Not immediately, but it was always a matter of time. I don't want him to be because Tim will always be. Tim will always be my favorite player, my eternal childhood crush, my sense of awe and wonder. The split-finger change is something I'll never forget. It took my breath away each and every time. It was a small miracle I got to relive for as long as he pitched on the mound. I wish I could have said goodbye, like we did for Zito, for Romo. Like we did for so many other Forever Giants. It didn't have to be for a game. Maybe just an inning. Maybe just a few words before a game. But none of us got official closure. He was there, and then he was gone.

On the mound, another strikeout. Ten strikeouts - "Have a night, kid." It only took him two starts to get to double digits. Another strikeout. Eleven strikeouts total. I'm irrationally bitter about it, irrationally touchy and tender. They want Kyle to be the next Tim - but look where that got Tim. Private Tim put on the pedestal, then hung out to dry. On the other hand, do we expect too much? Do we celebrate and elevate too early? "Tim Lincecum's Greatness Didn't Last." Where's Tim now? And how is he? Headlines of "What Happened to Tim Lincecum?" "What's wrong with Tim Lincecum?" "Where Has Tim Lincecum Been Hiding?" Various journalism bounties for who could get the scope first from the elusive Seattle recluse. But how is he, really? “You got your baseball life, and you kind of detach that and be a regular person," he said in 2018. "That’s the way I always approached it.’’ He never Really retired, not really. Despite the accolades, some of which only three pitchers have achieved across all of the sport, he won't make it into the hall of fame. Won't come back to the ballpark anyway, save once for Boch. Does that still make him a Forever Giant? Does that make him a "bad" Giant? Is he really that much worse than Koufax and Verlander?

from 2018:

“I was battling with that process, constantly wrestling with it,’’ he says, “Do I need to stay in the game? Have I done everything I felt I needed to do? ... The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I care about (baseball) so much. It’s part of my identity. ... Granted, I’ve gone through all of the questions asking myself whether this is worth it. I’ve accomplished a lot, and the accolades are great. It helps you remember parts of the game, how you got there, and who was involved. But it’s hard when you feel like you’re on your way out. You start to have battles with thoughts you never did before. I tried to detach myself to gain perspective. I had a lot of options what to do with the rest of my life, but baseball is all that I’ve known. I want to do whatever I can to keep my career going, no matter how much time I have left in the game. Really, I just want to go out on my own terms.’’

Top of the seventh inning. Kyle Harrison leaves to a thunderous standing ovation. In living rooms behind their screens, more standing ovations. I clap, but I feel empty. "He was spectacular." "He was the story tonight." "A historic performance." I stop. I can't.

6.1 IP 3H 0R 0ER 2BB 11K

It feels like Tim has finally retired. It feels like #55 has finally died. Everyone is giving Kyle a standing ovation, and I am seated and sobbing. Maybe some will argue that Kyle is worthy enough of wearing 55. If that happens, I don't know if I could ever watch his starts in the rotation again. (Un)Happy Harrison day to me. Maybe I'm just the bad Giants fan. I can't help it. It feels like the rug has been swept out from my feet.