​Baseball has a strange way of clinging to you. Certain plays, moments, games, and players latch onto pockets of memory in a way that’s hard to explain, and I’m not intent on diagnosing why they do. I’ve watched thousands of San Francisco Giants games across many formats: some via old paper box scores, others through digital boxes, and plenty on the bright yellow boombox my parents gifted me in my youth. I’ve heard many more through countless car stereos, watched some on television, some on a computer, and some on my phone. A handful occurred in person, and a considerable number have lived on social media or in online play-by-play data. And, of course, I’ve forgotten most of them. There are countless memorable games and highlight moments that are labeled “you’ll never forget,” yet many of them have, ironically, been swept away during my annual spring cleaning of the brain.
What we forget isn’t usually strange. What we remember, though, often feels peculiar. Take, for example, July 2, 2013, a day etched in my mind. The Giants were attempting to defend their title but were mired in a deep slump. A once-promising season had fallen to pieces; they’d dropped five of their last six games and scored a single run in three of their previous four. They were flailing and feckless, inventing new ways to lose. In short, they were pathetic.
I happened to be in Yosemite that day, spending time with my parents—the first trip back since I had moved out to start life as an adult. In the valley there’s a cafeteria/bar/pizza parlor patio where we’d typically spend our vacations, and they showed sports on the television, which was a thoughtful touch. In 2013, the pre-streaming era, they aired the Giants on the station they could receive. So I wandered with my dad to check in on the game, hoping for a glorious showdown between Tim Lincecum and Homer Bailey, a chance for the Giants to right the ship. The game was only a few innings old when we arrived, and we hadn’t planned to stay long.
But I had to witness the first hit. My dad, not as patient, wandered back to the cabin. Every now and then I’d wander back between innings to update him: still no hit. Occasionally he’d drift back to the cafe and peek in: still no hit. Finally, mercifully, the game ended—nine no-hit innings by Bailey. I remember muttering, perhaps to my dad or perhaps just to myself, that the Giants had finally hit rock bottom. A brutal June swoon had begun with a blowout in both games of a June 1 doubleheader, and that moment had felt like the climax. They’d been dragged to the bottom of the riverbed, with nowhere to go but up. They were no-hit, and it seemed impossible for things to get any worse.
Today, I’m thinking about that game as the Giants were routed 10-0 by the Toronto Blue Jays. The memory lingers, a reminder of how quickly a team can swing from despair to hope, and how a single moment—somewhere between a hit, a no-hitter, and a long road back—can become a touchstone in a lifelong love affair with a sport.