We were down in Cincinnati, where we faced that sea of red.
Then we came back in St. Louis too, a sizzling three-game spread.
When we went to face the Tigers, well, they said our run was dead,
and Verlander would shut us down, Detroit would be the champs,
who swept the Yankees after all, their hitters big and feared,
and anyone who picked the San Francisco club was weird.
But though it all seemed obvious, they had to play the games,
and Blanco made a diving catch and Pablo hit one out,
a ball bounced off the third-base bag, giving Angel wings,
and Pablo hit another one, and then he left no doubt
by hitting homer number three, and Game One was a rout,
all thanks to Barry Zito; he shut down those beefy dudes,
and Timmy Lincecum came in and treated hitters rude,
so they said that we were lucky, they said it was a fluke
(the pundits seemed to have one voice except for Kuip and Kruk)
and things would even out because the baseball world could tell
the Tigers had the power, but our Giants, well, that Frisco club was lucky.
The black and orange were having fun in winning that first bout
but announcers said that in Game Two, we'd feel their sluggers' clout:
Cabrera - god of hitting, Prince Fielder, source of fears,
but Madison, a man beyond his years, he shut them down, and then
when Gregor bunted: rolling, rolling, rolling, sweet precision playing out,
it was true that we were lucky, please take note that we were lucky
yes they told us we had won another game but all because we're lucky.
Game Three was Ryan Vogelsong's - our traveled samurai
- and secret weapon Tim again - may long his freak flag fly -
and Gregor hit one in the gap that only he'd have caught,
yes, Blanco hit a triple, scoring feral Hunter Pence
and somehow all our lucky cats began to have the sense
they'd win it all with pitching and with pitching and with pitching
and with defense and with speed (ye gods!), and lots of timely hitting,
and we didn't hear that lucky word, no more they called us lucky
but we knew that it was true, we had that thing
(they called it Glue) that grew a little every game, we knew that we
So on Sunday Cain was ready, unflappable once more.
He held them through the seventh; both teams had equal score. \
Then Affeldt, noble lefty, and Casilla from the right
ept down the swinging Tigers, and the stage was shining bright.
First Theriot began the tenth, he cracked his way on base
a perfect Crawford sacrifice advancing him with grace
and after one more out, when a simple hit could win -
it was Scutaro - oh Scutaro, who brought his teammate in.
The celebration needed one more frame to fall in place,
so Sergio commanded - squeezed each slider to its space
until the final pitch went right, not left, and froze Cabrera's face.
There were no more games together, they had gathered every ball,
Brandons, Marco, Pence and Panda, Buster, Blanco, Angel, all:
having taken seven straight to win, they'd answered every call.
If you had to pick a single one, though Buster did us proud,
you might just go with Scutaro, his deeds we'll sing aloud
for decades in the choir of San Francisco's everlasting sellout crowd.
So we sing in wide Yosemite, and on Great Highway's shore
From foggy coast to Sacramento Valley's spreading floor,
for in Northern California, where sempervirens stands,
we've got Bochy and Righetti, we've got pitchers who can pitch
we've got hitters who can link together bloops and walks and hits
and the fielders are swift and smart and give opponents fits
we can run and bunt and throw and make the tag, we finish what we start
but most of all, intangible, we've got that thing called heart.
After waiting half a life or more to get to twenty-ten
never figured two years later this could come again,
but here it is - it's just as sweet, the moment's here to savor
look 'round at one another, and be thankful they were right
never knowing what their words meant, but it's such a blessing, brother.
For no one can deny what was pouring from the sky, they were
right as rain, my friend, when they called us and our San Francisco Giants