The story began in early February when my girlfriend opted to
buy me Giants tickets for V-Day. Because of scheduling conflicts,
we couldn’t go to a game together until last week – conveniently
when the Giants were winning. I was excited; we thought she bought
tickets for Saturday, July 11, to see All-Star Matt Cain mow down
the hapless San Diego Padres.
You can imagine how thrilled I was Wednesday when, as we were
unpacking boxes, she came across those prized tickets that read:
section 138, row 11, seats 15-16, Friday, July 10.
In the words of Harper Lee, sports writers, I suppose, were fans once, too.
By way of a belated Valentine’s gift, I was able to witness the greatest night of Jonathan O. Sanchez’s life Friday in AT&T Park.
People can easily go their entire life without seeing an MLB no-hitter.
Take my editor, for instance, who estimated he has been to almost 300 games. (He refused to read this column.)
Take my father, who has been a Giants fan since before they were in San Francisco.
Then take me, who somehow ended up in section 138 Friday to see a Giants pitcher throw the franchise’s first no-hitter in more than 30 years.
The story began in early February when my girlfriend opted to buy me Giants tickets for V-Day. Because of scheduling conflicts, we couldn’t go to a game together until last week – conveniently when the Giants were winning. I was excited; we thought she bought tickets for Saturday, July 11, to see All-Star Matt Cain mow down the hapless San Diego Padres.
You can imagine how thrilled I was Wednesday when, as we were unpacking boxes, she came across those prized tickets that read: section 138, row 11, seats 15-16, Friday, July 10.
Wait a sec, July 10? That game was between starts by Cain and Tim Lincecum. You mean we were missing that to see hapless Jonathan Sanchez (2-8) get mowed down by the San Diego Padres? This is the guy who was only starting because Randy Johnson got hurt; the guy whom I said the Giants should trade weeks ago.
“Good thing we double-checked,” my girlfriend said.
Yeah, good thing.
So, there we were Friday in China Basin, helping the bleacher brethren razz Padres left fielder Chase Headley and watching history quietly unfold.
Maybe it will be the last Major League start of Sanchez’s career, I thought.
After Pablo Sandoval’s three-run home run to right-center field made it 7-0, I honestly started planning an early-exit strategy. My girlfriend was cold and the game was getting ugly.
But Sanchez was amazing. He looked like a magician out there, making the friars look foolish with his speed and control.
Where did this come from?
He had seven of his 11 strikeouts by the end of the seventh inning and looked, simply, unhittable.
How many hits had he given up?
My jaw dropped when I looked at the scoreboard.
Zero?
I turned to a guy sitting with his girlfriend a row behind us.
He nodded.
I turned toward a season-ticket holder, who tapped his index finger against his lips.
If you say anything, we’ll throw you and your girlfriend into the cove.
In case you don’t know, baseball is a pretty superstitious sport. When it comes to no-hitters, there’s only one rule: Don’t talk about no-hitters.
When she saw me break into a smile, my girlfriend gave me a funny look. I had to let her in.
I whispered, “The Giants pitcher is having a good game. He hasn’t given up a hit yet. There’s a term for that, but I can’t tell you what it is.”
Whispering even quieter, I let the term slip — just as Headley lined an ominous grounder in the direction of Juan Uribe at third base.
Headley got his revenge. Uribe bobbled the grounder, and San Diego put its first and only baserunner aboard.
I could have died.
Along with 30,200-plus people in attendance, I fixed my eyes on the scoreboard, hoping the play would not be ruled a hit.
San Diego’s error column displayed the numeral one, much to my relief, but a perfect game for the 26-year-old Sanchez was ruined.
I still don’t care much for superstition. In the end, games come down to you, the ball and what you do with it.
Sanchez did something Friday that no one in San Francisco, or planet Earth, thought he could ever do. If not for the aforementioned injury suffered by the Big Unit, he could, very well, never pitch again in a Giants uniform – Sanchez’s name has been tossed around in trade rumors for months.
None of that looked like it mattered to him, though, nor the fact that his father, Sirgfredo, was watching him pitch as a Major Leaguer for the first time.
“This is a gift for me,” Sanchez said afterward. “I feel awesome.”
I thought he was going to crack after Headley reached base. He threw a wild pitch to Craig Stansberry, allowing Headley to reach second, then came a hair shy of having his no-no broken up on Stansberry’s would-be two-run homer.
But Stansberry’s drive was gloved at the wall, and Eliezer Alfonzo struck out swinging.
Three outs to go.
The moment reminded of the countless college basketball and football games I have been to, mainly the upsets. I had never witnessed a moment like this. Few people in the stadium had, if any.
How are we supposed to act? Should we start cheering louder?
I could not believe I was seeing this. People were gathering trash, peanut shells, soda cups, beverage trays, anything that could be torn up and thrown like confetti.
Luis Rodriguez grounded out to shortstop, two outs to go.
People were jumping in the bleachers. Cell phones were coming out. Camera flashes were going off.
Edgar Gonzalez connects with a drive to deep center. All noise drops.
It would be a crime, but understandable, if someone didn’t mention Aaron Rowand’s name in the same breath as Sanchez’s no-hitter — sort of like when people forget Eric Wright’s tackle after The Catch.
I’ll never forget the sound of Gonzalez’s bat.
From my seat, I saw Rowand make a beeline for the corner in left-center field, disappear in front of the wall, leap for the catch and vanish as the crowd stood up.
Three hundred feet away, Sanchez pointed at him.
One out to go.
The sound grew more deafening with each pitch to Everth Cabrera. He struck out looking on a breaking ball that hung in the air for an eternity before falling into Eli Whiteside’s glove on the outside corner.
Game over.
The celebration that followed was fit for a king, a king for a day at least. Sanchez’s father went out the next morning and bought a copy of every major newspaper he could. I bought one myself. I vowed to keep that and the tickets as long I can.
After taking about a thousand shots of the scoreboard with my phone, I reminded my girlfriend that she will probably never witness another no-hitter in her lifetime.
We watched the Giants on TV the next day. Cain left the game with an injury after the second inning.
