Not even when the final out was recorded did I even realize what this World Series title meant. I for one had a hard time figuring out whether to cry, throw up, or run around kissing people. It was the most awkward moment of my life, and I loved it. And even though I knew we won, it was almost like I was waiting for the commissioner of baseball to add more World Series games as a sick joke.
Not even the drunken parading, the obnoxious yelling of “World Fucking Champions” to every stranger I saw, the demand for a response back when I got none the first time, the awesome beer showers on Polk street, the 5 times I slurred along to “We are the Champions” booming out of some random mercedes, or even the fire truck fishtailing down the street, could make this feeling of the Giants winning a World Series for the first time ever in my life, and in San Francisco’s life, sink in.
The Parade made the feeling start sinking in, and fast. 1.5 million people blocking my way to seeing the greatest procession of awesomeness Market St. has ever seen was a sight to behold. The people in trees, the sweatiness, the long lines to do normal things, the smell of pot in the air, the GIANTS GEAR! I had A.D.D overload. I wanted everything and wanted it immediately. All walks of life were there, crawling up to the highest points possible to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Happiness was in the air and it was amazing to see the entire city bask in it.
But seeing those cable cars go down the street, imagining that orange confetti come down from the sky, making San Francisco snow orange on those baseball players that gave me some of my life’s greatest memories this is year is something so absolutely absurd that it really meant that my Giants did do something special. It still seems like a dream, but I’m getting used to it. Go Giants.


