I've hit a little bit of a lull—the writing bug has stopped biting so incessantly.
When that happens, I find it's usually best to return to the things you really love and hope that sparks things back up a bit. For me, that means the San Francisco Giants. Luckily for me, there's a subject that fits nicely right into the inaugural week of the Major League Baseball season.
It can't be about the guys on the field. I've written about the Gents four or five times before the fellas saw/threw the first pitch and nothing monumental has surfaced in the two games since then.
The pitching is off to a slow start and the bats opened with a bang, but then retreated into their shells behind Randy Johnson on Wednesday. So what? It's two flippin' games.
That's not nearly enough of a sample to make even mild conclusions about how the other 160 will pan out. However, the start of the season has revealed something from which a firm conclusion can be drawn.
Those of you who have DirecTV may already be aware of this, but subscribers to that particular provider are enjoying a free preview of the MLB Extra Innings package. Since the package allows you to see every single game played from local broadcasters, I'm getting my first extensive look/hear at other teams' local flavors behind the mic.
And it's quickly becoming clear that we (San Francisco Giants fans) are incredibly lucky to have Mike Krukow and Duane Kuiper.
There may be no more subjective topic than play-by-play and color commentary preferences. Furthermore, I won't pretend to have heard all 30 sets enough to really stake my reputation on the absolute superiority of Kruk and Kuip.
Shoot, I won't even pretend to have heard all 30 sets...period.
However, I've heard enough over the last several days to be willing to go out on a limb and say SF's primary tandem are at least in the top five. I wouldn't be shocked if they roosted atop the entire heap.
Some of their colleagues are mind-numbingly boring. Others seem to lack even a basic understanding of baseball...or at least the ability to communicate it. Others feel the need to constantly interject war stories from their glory days into the conversation.
And the Kansas City Royals' color commentator sounds flat-out, fall-down drunk.
Seriously, he slurs his words like the moron who's trying to make best-friends with the bouncer at one in the morning because no one else in the joint will talk to him and the bouncer can't go anywhere.
It's like he saw Major League and is literally trying to become Bob Uecker's character. Right down to passing out behind the mic when the dog days of summer hit.
So far, the only broadcast team I've heard that can even hold a candle to Duane and Mike is the one the New York Mets have cookin'. I recognize Ron Darling's voice and that of Keith Hernandez (I'm Keith Hernandez), but I don't know who the third hombre is.
Regardless, they do the best job (other than my guys) of mixing baseball insight with timely analysis and commentary. Even more impressively, the trio openly backs the home nine, but they aren't delusional about it.
On more than one occasion, I heard each of the three point out a bad call that went in favor of the Metropolitans or justifiably dog a player sporting a sympathetic uni for a mental error or physical mistake.
As simple as that sounds, and as easy as it looks on the surface, you'd be surprised how many booths fail the task. Miserably.
The voices for the Chicago White Sox and Atlanta Braves jump to mind as some of the most egregious offenders. Good LORD—listening to the Bravos' guys during that seven-run inning was excruciating.
Hey, when your pitchers are walking the stadium, guess what? The umpire isn't going to give your pitcher the corners. Get over it.
The Boson Red Sox guys are pretty serious offenders in this regard as well. However, the BoSox crew has NO problem jumping all over their own guys when the situation calls for it. In fact, they seemed to be almost too eager to do so.
You get the impression the Tomahawks or Pale Hose could take the field nude and their booths would focus on how it's the wise move because of the heat index.
Plus, the Boston guys don't let their fanaticism (in the sporting sense of the word) obscure their baseball IQ or their ability to articulate it to the audience. I actually like listening to them, provided Boston isn't winning easily—then they become damn near intolerable.
But none (so far) can really compare to Kruk and Kuip. Before the foaming mouths start, keep in mind I'm not claiming to be unbiased or analytical here—for me, that's another secret to getting untracked.
Duane would have to be the straight-man of the tandem.
He delivers sound analysis, impeccable timing, a refreshingly old-school perspective from an ex-hitter, and his dulcet tones handle the aesthetic side of the equation. Kuip's understated sense of humor is the perfect foil to Kruk's adolescent buffoonery.
And I mean that it the most flattering way about Krukow.
Look, a MLB game is looooong. As much as I love baseball, as much as I obsess over the little nuances that drive an inning, even I must admit there are many calms before the equally numerous storms.
In these moments, Mike's sophomoric humor is the perfect respite. Sure, it's not gonna earn him entry into the same club as Jack Buck or John Miller or Vin Scully (the gold standard even if he works for the Los Angeles Dodgers).
But that ship sailed many moons ago for Mike Krukow.
His niche is not the profound narration of historical moments that mark our cultural evolution. It is dropping glib one-liners, delivering fantastic pitching analysis as well as general baseball acumen (he warned of Yovani Gallardo's prowess with the bat one pitch before El Chupacabra took the Big Unit deep for a three-run bomb), and showcasing his extensive collection of baseball euphemisms.
My mom has complained that listening to Kruk is sometimes like listening to a different language. But it's Kruk's facility with terms like aspirin, happy zone, Gumby shoulders, frozen rope, Uncle Charlie, Mr. Snappy, meat, low-fly, etc. that baseball enthusiasts devour.
Yes, the "Eliminate Me" and "grab some pine, meat" gimmickry can get a bit tedious. Enter Kuiper's steady brilliance to keep Krukow's act fresh by constantly reorienting Mike while offering his contrasting approach.
I won't pretend to know what makes these two work so well together, but the sum is definitely more than the parts.
While both men were good ballplayers, neither was great. The equal footing allows the ebb and flow of self-deprecating humor mixed with nasty little jabs born from loyalty and shared agonies—accepted for the same reasons.
The two men radiate an air of sincere friendship and commaraderie—often referring to the other's family with subtle intimacy, speaking to a deeper connection than merely sharing the same space and time.
Krukow and Kuiper live for the Giants, but they clearly place baseball truth above all else. A gift for a team is a gift for team, a blown call is a blown call—it doesn't matter whether Los Gigantes benefit from the blunder or make it.
Few franchises can boast of assets that draw an audience independently of the home team's success, but Kruk and Kuip represent just that to the San Francisco Giants. They've given Giants fans a ray of sunshine through the post-Barry Bonds Dark Ages. A reason to tune in every day as the losses mounted.
Now that the Orange and Black seems to be emerging from those shadows, Kruk and Kuip won't be the centerpiece for much longer.
The thing is—and this may ultimately explain their genius—that's just the way they like it.
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