Dida & The Giants

 Mike Tauchman’s cleats pushed off the left field warning track at Dodger Stadium. His glove zipped through the Los Angeles night, before settling just above the out of town scoreboard, running fashionably late for a date with a ball off the bat of Albert Pujols. 

When he returned to the ground following his air expedition, the score remained the same. Only, he had a baseball in his glove, the inning had turned from #9 to #10, and Pujols, a former face of the franchise across town, wore a disappointed look, realizing that rather than a walk-off HR, his place in the scoresheet would look like any other F7.

I grinned as we defeated our archrivals, thanks to Tauch’s reach above the fence and extra inning hits by LaMonte Wade Jr and Evan Longoria. Yet, while I was staring at the magic on May 28th that has become old hat for this energetic Giants team, bigger things were on my mind than a baseball rivalry win. 

That night, we went out to dinner to commemorate my mother’s birthday, along with the end of my first year in high school and my sister’s opening grade of middle. The celebratory tone of the Spanish restaurant got turned on its head after my father hit the green “ACCEPT” button on a call from my grandmother.

She announced that my grandfather had a fall, hitting his head and forcing an urgent trip to the hospital. Waves of thoughts rushed through our heads, as trivial as whether we’d see him for our weekly Sunday dinners later that weekend, to as monumental as whether we’d see him again, period. We drove home shortly thereafter, with the paella we gobbled suddenly not feeling so great in our anxious stomachs.

We’ll call my grandpa Dida, the name I called him by for the 15+ years I was lucky enough to know him. One might assume I’m not using his real name out of journalistic integrity, or anonymity for the subject. Actually, I am not referring to him by his first name because he hated it. No, really. Dida LOATHED it. He once said that blessing a baby’s birth certificate with his name would be like naming somebody “Penis.” 

If the next 24 hours represented an adjective, that descriptor would almost certainly be “intense.” We worried over his recovery, hoping the head of the family, the man who brought us all together, could return to our lives. My father headed to the hospital, which let in limited visitors, to spend time with his dad.

Throughout that day, I tugged my hair and bit my nails over Dida’s health. I tried to act as the optimist who could walk into a 300 degree oven and remark “It’s a dry heat!” Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but assume the worst.

As I went about my day, I attempted to find things to do, like watching soccer and spending time with friends, but my mind drifted away from the matches of Chelsea/Man City and ultimate frisbee, and into a medical bed I had never seen.

That day, when I sought a distraction, nothing could hold my attention. I possessed the focus of a 7 year old on a road trip with the phrase “Are we there yet?” on autoplay. Until I flipped on the Giants game that evening. 

Just tuning in for a couple innings of San Francisco’s 11-6 annihilation of their aforementioned enemies was the easiest thing I did that day. Why did this ballgame hold my attention when no other programming could?

I believe it had something to do with Dida’s love for the Giants. From his birth in New York to a half century in the Bay Area, my grandfather rode with this special franchise for the entire roller coaster that was his life.

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Dida grew up in a Jewish family of Rockaway, a part of the Queens borough of New York City. Like any other kid in New York during the 1930s and 40s, he was confronted with a question that would shape his life in more ways than he could realize whilst he mulled over his selection: Which baseball team would he support?

There were the Yankees, representing The Bronx. Propelled by Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, they had the most success of the Big Apple’s squads, along with the bonus of Dida’s beloved Uncle Irving’s stamp of approval. 

Then, there were the Brooklyn Dodgers, the 1941 National League champions, liked by many of my grandpa’s classmates.

Nevertheless, when he walked to the podium like a high school football player ready to commit to a university, he settled on a third hat to sign his National Letter Of Intent Of Baseball Fandom for: the New York Giants.

I would love to say that Dida sensed a magical aura around the team. I want to say he decided this was the team that embodied the values he sought. The truth is, my grandfather rests on the Mount Rushmore of contrarians (he would probably respond “No I’m not!”), and chose the Giants because of all of the caps around him adorned with Bs and NYYs. He wanted a team for himself.

The first glorious moment of Giants baseball for Dida occurred on October 3rd, 1951. I don’t think I need to say more than “THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT!” for you to understand the splendor of this day. 

His heart and brain certainly savored every second, but his bicep did not - surrounded by Dodger fans listening on the radio, Bobby Thompson’s heroics earned his arm more than a punch or two.

If you’re an MLB historian, you know the next step for the only New York Giants never to have Eli Manning: the 1954 World Series. With Willie Mays’ “The Catch” (you know it’s an amazing achievement when writers can use a very vague term and everybody grasps the reference) the headline, NYG coasted to a sweep. 

Unfortunately, when the New York Baseball Giants at long last celebrated a World Series crown, my grandfather was not there to cheer them on. He instead served in the US military during this year of his 23rd birthday. Rather than a ticket to the Polo Grounds for this monumental series, he had an airplane ticket to another continent. The team won, but it would be long until Dida would be in the USA to cheer the Giants to a Commissioner's Trophy and the ultimate conquest of baseball.

Only a few years later, the line “California Baseball” in Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start The Fire,” was born, signifying the cross-country flights for the Dodgers and Giants, from New York to their new homes on the West Coast.

If you thought this was it for Dida and the Giants, you’d be met with a “Family Feud”-esque buzzer noise in the negative. Around this time, he began his own journey to Northern California, making his way to the land an outsider might call “San Fran.” 

The San Francisco Giants wrote page one of their history books at Seals Stadium. Soon, they moved into the “cutting-edge” Candlestick Park. Dida sat just a Bay Bridge drive away from the diamond, beginning his long tenure as a history professor at UC Berkeley.

Another decade elapsed, and my father’s existence saw its Opening Day. It wouldn’t be long until my dad would be introduced to Major League Baseball by his dad, and with it, the Giants.

In 1971, the Giants won the NL West, punching their ticket to the Championship Series, 7 wins from the promised land. My pops (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase in an article!) was only three, but Dida was convinced that toddlers wielded immaculate memories, and refused to buy that my dad couldn’t remember the run.

So, the first (conscious) memory that my old man had of Giants baseball after the first couple days of October didn’t arrive until 1987. That fateful year, the two generations above me, father and grandfather, lived in Japan. Several time zones away, they plugged in their radio, set their alarm, and tuned in for the NLCS in pitch black.

When the G’s blew a 3-2 series lead, including a 1-0 loss in Game Six, sending the St Louis Cardinals to the World Series, Dida could only mutter “I hate you,” before he and my dad burst out laughing, while the rising sun was nowhere to be found in the land of it.

Another 3-2 blown lead later, this time in the 2002 World Series by Barry Bonds’ band, and I was born, in 2006. Soon enough, I began walking and talking, and across the bay, Tim Lincecum and Matt Cain, under the tutelage of the great Bruce Bochy, had something brewing.

As I wrapped up my preschool studies with a dissertation on the optimal finger-painting method, the San Francisco Giants decided not to lose. They took 8 out of 10 in the National League playoffs, after riding a hot September to overtake the Padres and earn the West crown.

They won 3 out of 4 in the World Series. Then, one of my first memories that will last a lifetime was made. We entered Casa Dida. We took our places on the couch, though mathematicians would need to create a new number to describe the times I jumped up and ran around. 

Vividly, I recall the tense 9th, as one of 4 year old Casey’s favorite players, Brian Wilson, who had a little bit of skin to accompany his massive beard, came in for the save. Strikeout looking. Easy grounder to shortstop. Strikeout swinging. Ballgame.

Do I remember the forwards K versus the backwards one in the 9th? No. Do I remember whether it was Josh Hamilton, Vladimir Guerrero, or Nelson Cruz who made the final out? No. Do I remember the reaction from my family after the game? Yes.

My dad collapsed, crying on the coffee table. I couldn’t fathom why he could be so upset - we had won! I soon understood the term “tears of joy.” My father didn’t think he’d live to see the San Francisco Giants hoist a trophy, let alone Dida. 

We had won the lottery: Dida, his son, and his grandson all got to occupy a single sofa together, as they processed one of the greatest events in each of their lives. For the first time since their move west in 1958, the San Francisco Giants were world champions.

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That night, my dad called with the worst news he could possibly have - Dida, one of my heroes, my beloved grandfather, had passed away. I would never again get to converse with the man who brought so much curiosity and love to the table every time we talked. 

Over the last month, I’ve felt so many things when I look from sky to ground and realize that he isn’t there to roam it with us any more. Over the past few weeks, after much thought and emotion, I’ve realized just how lucky I was.

I am grateful for the 1.5 decades of delectable dinners I got to eat with Dida every Sunday. I am appreciative of the universe for letting me share his 89th 90th birthday (Dida was prone to the occasional lie about his age) with him less than a week before his passing. I want to thank whoever set up the caddie orientation at Sequoyah Country Club on May 27th: since my dad and I happened to be in the neighborhood for that, I got to see him one last time!

Most of all, I’m indebted to whoever runs this planet for allowing the San Francisco Giants to win the World Series in 2010, 2012, and 2014. Those memories will live for as long as I do. I am so lucky to have these souvenirs in my brain, to recall some of the happiest nights of my life.

It saddens me that I do not have the privilege of making more moments with my grandfather. However, in a sense, thanks to a magical baseball team, I do. 

I will never watch the Giants without thinking of my grandfather and all the joy we have shared.

Every time I watch Kevin Gausman or Anthony DeSclafani notch a K, I can see Dida’s wide grin as he appreciates his favorite baseball team excelling. For every home run by Buster Posey, Brandon Crawford, or Brandon Belt, I am able to feel Dida’s heart soar, before his mouth jumps in with a comment about his disdain for Crawford’s hair. 

Every time the Giants celebrate another win in a season in which those feel commonplace, I feel my grandfather with me, somewhere up there, smiling over the merry family he constructed, ecstatic about the victory, and wondering if it’s almost Orange October again. As the San Francisco Giants embark on what has already been an unforgettable season, I will feel Dida’s presence every step of the way.