Say it Ain't So

This morning's story in the Chronicle gave every suggestion that Dusty Baker would not return as Giants manager. The week-plus of time that had passed since the Giants' Orange County Fade Away hadn't left the skipper feeling warm and cuddly toward the ol' gang. The only way to phrase Dusty's posture is to say he continued to whine. It's painful to put things so bluntly, because for ten years Dusty was the heart and soul of the Giants, but honestly: It is difficult to think of another prominent professional so frequently and powerfully shaken by ungenerous critiques (and so unable to separate that minority of viewpoints from the mammoth tide of praise that regularly washes over him). So on one hand, the news tonight that Dusty is officially history here brings a shrug and a "whatever." On the other hand: that's the pain speaking, lashing back, shielding the hurt. Yep, it hurts to see Dusty leave. He is thin-skinned, to be sure. His big-game calls were sometimes suspect. But when we shovel away all the talk-radio BS we find a man of tremendous character and charisma, a man with a peculiar ability to keep and maintain respect and order in a time when shoddy behavior and chaos rule sports. We see one exceptionally cool mo-fo. Damn. No Dusty. I had convinced myself that after the shared agony of Game 6, Dusty couldn't abandoned us. But apparently he did not believe the agony was shared. 'Tis a pity. Good luck, Bake—and keep a close eye on Darren, OK?

Storm Clouds Gathering

If you live anywhere but the arid southwest (which, in my book, extends as far north as the Mendocino-Sonoma county line), this entry will strike you as puzzling. I mean, what the hell, it's going to rain, big deal. But it is a big deal! We haven't had rain since mid-May. I have the vague recollection of a few episodes of heavy fog that could possibly have earned the title "drizzle." But measurable precipitation? Uhn-uh and pshaw. No picnics scrapped, no ballgames washed out, no bike rides cancelled; doesn't happen here in the May through October period. 'Splains, partly, why thirty-whatever million people live in California….

So I'm all tingly after reading the forecast discussion, which as of this evening states: "MOST RAINFALL OVER THE NEXT 60 HOURS WILL BE GENERATED BY STRONG WARM ADVECTION AND ASSOCIATED VERTICAL ASCENT...BUT COASTAL RANGES WILL SEE RAINFALL ENHANCED BY GOOD OROGRAPHICS...WITH THE MODELS SHOWING PERIODIC EPISODES OF 40-50 KT SWLY WINDS FROM 925-850 MB THROUGH FRIDAY EVENING. THE LATEST QPF GUIDANCE SHOWS RAINFALL TOTALS FROM LATE TONIGHT THROUGH FRIDAY NIGHT IN THE 1-3 INCH RANGE FOR MOST LOWER ELEVATIONS WITH 3-5 INCHES ACCUMULATING IN THE COASTAL RANGES...WITH EVEN LOCALLY HEAVIER AMOUNTS IN THE COASTAL RANGES OF THE NORTH BAY AND IN THE SANTA LUCIAS IN MONTEREY COUNTY. SINCE THIS IS THE FIRST RAIN EVENT OF THE SEASON...RIVER AND STREAM FLOODING IS UNLIKELY...BUT URBAN FLOODING IS A DISTINCT POSSIBILITY."

The thing we don't know about this storm is if it'll kick off an extended period of sogginess, or if it will dump and run, followed by weeks of cool, glorious, late-fall-tinted sunshine, the kind that leaves me wanly peering out the office window about 2 p.m. each day, longing to have my softening ass on my bike saddle rather than in the chair it calls home Monday through Friday. Three years ago December was bone dry, not a drop, low 60s and sunny every day. Last year, we got 15 inches of rain in December, spread out over two dozen days such that folks began to get edgy and gripey (except when they were talking to their Seattle and Portland friends, colleagues and relations). You just don't know.

Just to be sure, after work today we picked up all the summer toys and tossed 'em in the shed or the winery (yeah, yeah: garage), and Rebecca and Niko finished their long job of shoveling ten yards of recently delivered topsoil off the driveway and into place around the yard. Seed of a native grass was scattered. As evening fell we found ourselves sitting in the backyard, partially illuminated by a lone light, the big oak brooding overhead, a thick carpet of soft leaves from the eastern oak still reflecting a warm glow. The air was mild and so still you didn't want to breathe for fear of disturbing the holy equilibrium. We talked about some dreams and Niko babbled brilliantly, as he is wont to do, and looked customarily cuter than any living thing in the world in his red Osh Kosh b'Gosh overalls, and we got ready for the new season that was, beyond the hills and beyond our view, pushing toward us.

Day After

We won one! We being the Democrats, who I insist on identifying with despite the debacle. The one was South Dakota, where Johnson outpolled Thune by, like, a few hundred votes out of 325,000 cast. The people have spoken. Prairie wisdom to the fore...

Election Report

The chatterers on the tube are so uniformly uninteresting that I'm at the computer, getting what I really want anyway: numbers. Or at least, I'm getting numbers from the states that know how to run a website, a group that unfortunately does not include my home state of California. Aren't we the wired capital of the universe? Then why is our server struggling to put out pages—while piddly South Dakota serves up results in a flash? Missouri does well, too. And Minnesota ain't half bad.

I mention SD, MO and MN, by the way, because they are the only states where we Dems have any hope left. And yes, I still care, even if the party sucks and has no vision. I tinkered with the idea of voting Green but frankly, that social and economic justice message strikes me as a too paternalistic, too group-identity fixated. At this point, anybody without a D or an R after their name is just whistling Dixie.

Results as of 10:36 p.m. Pacific Standard Time: It's a complete wipeout. Talent is going to eke out a less-than-1-percent win in MO; Thune is overtaking Johnson in SD and will win by an equally small margin; and Coleman appears headed toward a 3-4 point win in MN. Not unreasonably, Bush is going to see this as a mandate. Which is scary.

Update: Carnahan concedes in MO (margin of defeat will actually be about 1.5 percent), and Coleman maintaining lead in MN. Only the Johnson-Thune race is outstanding, and it's going right down to the wire: with less than 15 percent of the precincts remaining to report, Thune's lead is 1,000 votes out of more than 250,000 cast.

Last update: Johnson is toast in SD, behind by 2,000 votes with probably only 10,000 votes to count. So EVERY competitive race went to the Republicans, and they will hold a 52-46 margin in the Senate, pending the Lousiana runoff and with one independent.

It Was a Great Ride

The moment Lofton made contact I knew what we were in for. I could watch it but I couldn't listen, and remote in hand I zipped the sound down to zero. Still it was horrible. The catch, the leap, the pileup on the infield, fireworks and smoke in the air, fans leaping and bouncing deliriously, every last red-shirted one of them pounding blow-up noise sticks as yet more fireworks blast away…. Just as I was sinking deep into despair and self-loathing (You idiot for caring so much about millionaire athletes, you fool for wasting all this time on a game), there was little Darren. You've heard too much about Dusty's boy, the most famous 3-year-old in America, but stay with me: He saved my day. He did it by sobbing in his daddy's arms as the Angel celebration unfolded in the aftermath of Lofton's flyball and Erstad's catch, of Rueter's gutsy performance and Livan's failure—and mostly, of course, in the aftermath of Saturday's monumental collapse. (That's when the Giants lost it, duh. Only the foolishly afflicted—like me, see earlier post—dared let hope make a comeback in the hours before Game 7.) Watching the tears roll down Darren's face I thought, "Yep, little buddy, it hurts." And I laughed. Little boys cry when their team loses. And so do big boys. And it's OK.

So Close

All through the Series, win or lose, I've looked forward to the next day's paper. That's part of the experience–kind of like rolling an interesting wine around in your mouth, gargling a bit, drawing air in and over it to make sure no subtleties are missed. This morning, I couldn't face the full 20-page section of rehash. All I wanted was a little Bruce, who I was sure would understand. At first I felt his merely solid effort had failed me somehow; I read, and the pain didn't go away. But now I feel hope and excitement returning. No doubt, this is a profoundly difficult time for the true Giants fan. The prospect of this long run of happy events ending in sadness, again, looms large. And to have had it sitting there in our hands–eight outs to go, nobody on base, a five-run lead … that's plainly cruel. Rebecca says she's afraid to hope and that is wise; me, I've got no choice. I've been with this team for 30 years, since I was 10 years old and declared my independence from the Minnesota teams I had followed since spending the first five years of my life in the Midwest. We were in California now and I needed a Northern California team. The A's were winners, so naturally I shied away from them. The Giants had a history of disappointing; they would be mine. Then and now. Bring on Game 7.

When last we met, on Monday, I revealed the sad fate of my just-pressed Zinfandel: It was leaking out of the barrel. This led to the purchase of another barrel and of a pump. Along the way this week, I also spent an hour in the hospital while the urologist performed an operation which my HMO calls "removal of sperm ducts." Vasectomy, indeed. Niko shall be the one and only! It hurt, dammit. More than they said it would. Three days later and it still hurts. OK, the pain is as promised--"moderate," not "extreme." But pain down there carries special weight, you'll certainly agree.

Meanwhile, there was craziness at work. Budgets, calls to "drive sales," research to do, plans to flesh out, writing to concoct, numbers to hatch, on and on. It almost felt like a real live full-time job, I swear.

But back to the winemaking. I picked up two 1998 barrels for 35 bucks a pop from Kristen, the charming and informative winemaker at Honig, and with my new pump moved the wine from the leaker into one of the Honigs. I wasn't very careful about pumping the dirty Zin and sent a lot of crud through the pump. The pump didn't mind, but the crud got all beat up and is now floating on the wine at the top of the barrel like pond scum. I've relied strictly on gravity in the past but with this much wine--by the end of this year's crush I'll have 260 gallons of wine in barrel, please don't tell the BATF--that was becoming impossible. I didn't realize how powerful a 1/2 horse pump could be. Next time I'll be more careful, for which the wine should be thankful. We'll let that Zin rest quietly for a few months now. I'm sure it will be fine.

I mentioned the end of crush: It comes tomorrow. I'm going up to Mendocino again to get old-vine Carignan. This poor grape gets little respect, mainly on account of the fact that growers have cropped it to high heaven and picked it too soon, and producers haven't argued with them when they did so. And why would they? The giant Central Valley wineries that bought most Carignan were feeding into jug wines, beefing up the color and flavor, and their first priority was to keep costs low. Treated right, I believe Carignan can make an interesting little wine, with deep color and rustic Rhonish flavors. Like Petite Sirah, it possesses much more character when picked from old vines. My source is Don Lucchesi's 45-year-old vineyard south of Ukiah in the Talmage area. Don gets about 5 tons an acre off his vineyard, a small crop by Carignan standards. At this late date, it ought to be plenty ripe, as well. I'll let you know what I think after I get back tomorrow.

One last thing: The Series, of course, starts tomorrow. Timing couldn't be more perfect. The last grapes are picked, then we settle in to watch the San Francisco Giants take their first World Series. What a wonderful fall this is turning out to be.

We were all out in the winery (you might call it a garage). I had finished pressing the Zin, 60 gallons into barrel and another 13 gallons into glass carboys. Niko was all changed and ready for bed. But we had to watch the bottom of the ninth. An out. Another out. Extra innings appeared likely. I wandered through the open garage door and out to the driveway to continue my cleanup while Rebecca and Niko stayed seated in front of the little TV we have out there. Over my shoulder, as I aimed a high-powered spray of water at the press staves, I saw David Bell's liner fall in. Likewise with Shawon Dunston (unbelievable). Two on. Two out. It dawned on me: If the next guy up gets a hit, the Giants are very likely in the World Series. I put down the hose. "Who's up?" I asked Rebecca. I didn't know. While pressing, I hadn't kept track of the lineup changes. Lofton, she said. "Hmm. He can be dangerous." We stood in front of the TV, me all wet and wine-stained, Rebecca holding Niko in her arms. Base hit. Base hit. There's going to be a play. Bell's not fast. The outfielder's not very deep. The throw is off line. It's over. We jumped and hugged. Niko smiled a big smile. We laughed. "The Giants are in the Series," I shouted. "Oh, my God," Rebecca said. Niko smiled and said, "Why does that little TV have an antenna on it?" "Because the Giants are going to the series," I said. "The Giants are going to the Series, and I think they're going to win it."

Post script: A perfect night. And then, as I sat and watched the post-game revelry, a dripping noise from the newly filled barrel behind me (a beautiful one-year-old French barrel). Drip. Drip. I looked up and down. Hmm. I looked behind. No! But yes: A leak. It's high on along the inside edge of the end, so I'll be able to keep 95 percent of the wine in the barrel for the day or two it will take me to find a replacement. Such a sweet barrel. A pity. But still: The Giants are in the Series.

The '02 Crush Continues

It was back at the winemaking today. But first an update on the Pinot that was picked a full month ago now: After pressing, I let the wine sit in six carboys for three or four days, allowing much of the spent yeast and assorted other muck to settle. I then racked the wine into one 100-liter barrel and a clean carboy. I left behind most of the muck, but wasn't meticulous about it, since the malolactic bacteria I had pitched into the wine near the end of the primary fermentation works more efficiently in the presence of solids. You could call this "slightly dirty" wine. Nearly two weeks later, the wine is showing remarkable progress in clarifying; the color is excellent for the variety; and the fruit is more concentrated than I expected--sweet and spicy. A bit of fermentation odor does remain--one taster called it hydrogen sulfide, but I'm not convinced of that--but it seems to be fading fast. To my surprise, we may have a winner on our hands.

Now onto today's activities. The focus was a grape at the other end of the varietal spectrum: Zinfandel. Three of us were up early this morning, bound for Mendocino and Greg Nelson's ranch about 10 minutes north of Hopland. Thank goodness for Janet from the office, and for my trusted friend and winemaking comrade, Dan Brekke. Together we were able to pick an estimated 1100 pounds of grapes in about three hours. Compared to picking Pinot, the Zin was a cakewalk. The canopy was a bit more open and the stems were longer and easier to grasp and snip, and few of the clusters wound themselves around wires and canes the way the nasty, difficult Pinot did. The grapes were in good condition--certainly no mold was evident--although there was a good deal of variability among the clusters, which is customary of Zinfandel. Greg brought his refractometer out and we did some informal sampling at various spots in the sizeable block. He found bunches at 28 brix and bunches at 21. Most seemed to be grouped in the 23-26 range, however, and the seeds were brown and nutty in all but the greenest clusters. Post-crush, my hydrometer, after initially checking in at 23.5, twice gave me readings just over 25 brix. Perfect. I was very happy with the timing of the harvest--and indeed, Greg's boys Tyler and Chris were picking in another part of the block. If you're picking on the same days as the grower's boys, you're probably picking on the right day.

Greg, by the way, couldn't have been more hospitable. When Janet and I arrived after the hour-and-forty-minute drive from Napa (Dan was coming solo from Berkeley), he invited us in for coffee. Greg's wife, Missy, then joined us and she and Janet recognized each other from several years ago, when Janet's family lived in Ukiah and Missy was working in the schools. Much reminiscing ensued. They apologized, but there was no need to; I get a kick out of old pals renewing acquantaince.

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We knew we were done picking when our bins--two each of 44, 32 and 20 gallons--were full. Plus three 2.5-gallon pails. That gave us 200 gallons of grapes, although by the time we arrived in Napa, settling had left a bit of space at the top of each of the bins. Our estimate of 1100 pounds was based on 6 pounds of grapes per gallon. That should be enough juice to fill a barrel--and what a nice barrel I've got to fill! Thanks to the generosity of Eugenia Keegan of Keegan Cellars, I've got a 1-year-old French oak barrel. Just right to give this Zin some smoothness and sweetness.

Crushing went smoothly. We crushed right into a half-ton bin, a task made easier by sawing a few pieces of wood to size and using them as planks to hold the crusher over the bin. Dan and I are becoming shockingly adept at crushing. The 1100 pounds were crushed and destemmed within an hour. I was pleased, too, with the results: A large percentage--perhaps 30 percent--of the berries were unbroken, which should aid me in my pursuit of fresh fruit and soft mouthfeel.

One last little tidbit: Just after we finished crushing, a colleague of Dan's stopped by with his family, which was visiting from Southern California. Niko and Steve's two little ones immediately began running around and playing. Particular fun was had swinging on the hammock (mom's provided the push and pull for the swinging action). Niko was quite disappointed when the gang had to shove off a half-hour or so later. And boy was he sad when his big pal Dan had to go! But we all agreed that there would have to be a visit with Dan, Kate and Tom soon.

Pressing

We pressed tonight, Niko and I, with a little assistance from Mommy of course. She helped carry out the half-ton bin that's been getting in our way in the garage/winery (and which ought to be returned to its owner, Mr. Casey Hartlip of Eaglepoint Ranch, sorry Case). For her efforts I gave her grief about not reading my mind and knowing that I wanted her to turn that way with this very heavy and awkward box, while she was turning the other way. It's true, I can be an asshole.

Niko, meanwhile, was rapid-firing "Whys?" and I gave most of them good, solid consideration. A few, however, I measured to be not serious inquiries and brushed them aside without comment. Though it was 12 hours into his napless day he was a good companion, until something led Mommy to say "No!" and that brought tears. He is a sensitive lad, just as his daddy was when he was a boy. I feel a tightening in my chest every time I see this on display, a tug at the heart. And yet there's a part of my that will mutter, "What a crybaby." The psychology is obvious: I need to come to terms with my own vulnerabilities, need to accept the fragile nature of my own psyche.

Ah, maybe tomorrow.

We press right out in the driveway with the garage door open and the winemaking paraphernalia accessible. Folks passing by give the goings on a look. Kurt, our octogenarian next-door neighbor, did so, up close, and dropped off homegrown tomatoes while he was at it. We were grateful, for we are tomato growers and eaters and can never have enough. Who could? Back in 1997, Rebecca and I traveled to—of all places—the Flint Hills of Kansas in order that I might participate in the Death Ride, an 80-mile off-ride cycling race conducted in 90-degree heat and 85-percent humidity. On the night before the ride the organizers tossed a big party and we heard some sweet Kansas girl sing a song of her own called "Homegrown Tomatoes," in which she rhapsodized that in life only two things are free, and that's true love and homegrown tomatoes. Yep. And that was a sweet night, and a sweet trip, from the flat tire in Reno to Hasty Lake where we took that cute picture to the crappy coffee in those Plains states diners—thank you, my dear.

By the way, that ride featured the one true bonk in my life. Sixty or so miles into it, at the last rest stop, I got off my bike to put food and drink into my sagging self. It would be an hour before I would ride again. I ate a bit; my stomach did a few flips. I tried to drink a little and that came back up. Finally I sat in the cool creak to beat the heat, and fell asleep right then and there. A half hour later I stirred. I felt awful, still, but hungry. I ate something, can't remember what, and after a tense moment realized it would stay down. Drink, too. I noticed riders passing through, including one older fellow, a real live gray beard. C'mon, man, I said to myself. He's got to be 60! Off I went, walking first, then riding, then riding hard. I finished. Strong.

Another visitor as we pressed tonight was a neighbor whose name I have not yet learned. She and I have a history, however. One early morning during our first summer in Napa I scampered out to the sidewalk to pick up the newspaper. Clad, I was, in only my skivvies. It couldn't have been past 6. Was hardly a risky move. I wasn't naked, for crying out loud! So this neighbor lady, who I will guess has rounded the 60 bend, happened to be out for her morning power walk. She appeared just as I picked up the paper and turned back for the house. She wore headphones and, noting my attire, a look of ecstatic shock. I had on no less than I do when I go for a run, but apparently it makes a big difference, running shorts vs. white Fruit of the Looms. Anyway, tonight it was an evening walk for her and she wondered what was up. Funny that right here in the winemaking capital of the United States, in one of the great wine regions of the world, right here in Napa, a name known by little French boys and girls, there are people who view a fellow in the 'hood making wine a curiosity. Or maybe she just a had a certain picture of me stuck in her head.

The pressing went well and Rebecca, whose palate is tremendous, confirmed what I was beginning to suspect: This wine is not as horrid as I feared. I mean, just-pressed wine can be nasty and when I tasted this newborn Pinot a day earlier, I nearly gagged. But now? Hmm. There might be hope. Light-bodied but spry, with some bright hard-to-peg fruit prominent. Hmm.

I dumped the wine, all purple and teeming with yeast and disintegrating pulp, into four 6.5-gallon and two 5-gallon carboys. I sloshed the juice around quite a bit. Everybody tells you to be careful with Pinot but at this point I see no problem with giving young wine, any young wine, a nice dose of oxygen. It's going to be stuck in the damn barrel for months without racking (I rarely rack; don't much believe in it plus it's a pain in the ass), so this is its chance to breathe a bit. Macro-oxygenation, eat ease a leetle, how you say, technique of mine, no?

Niko was done before I was, and Rebecca took him upstairs to get ready for bed. A few minutes later I went up and read the story about the seal who gives her pup squid, then Niko hit the booba and it was lights out on another day of little-boy adventure. Rebecca disengaged to work on www.keegancellars.com, a project nearly two years in the making, and I went back down to clean up. Got the gold nozzle that gives a good jet of spray despite our lousy water pressure and hosed everything clean, and it felt good. While cleaning, it hit me that I'd made wine again. We got up early one Sunday 11 days ago and with the help of friends picked grapes and now there was wine. This is life, I thought. Creating. Creating from the earth. Something of the earth. Way cool.

Meanwhile, I had the tube a-glowin' and it showed Livan Hernandez getting slapped this way and that by the Dodgers to the tune of six runs in the third. When I finished my work I stuck with the game, despite the hopelessness of it. The garage door up front was open and the back door at the other end was too, and after a 97-degree day the cooling air was beginning to stir, moving through, brushing past, and so I watched the game, and looked at my wine, and sipped a decent Cab from Yakima Valley. Life is good, I thought. But … it would be better with a sandwich, so I scurried inside and sliced some fresh tomatoes, mashed some avocado, grabbed some turkey and cheese from the fridge, and threw it all together. I was back in front of the tube in 3 minutes, baby wines by my side. This Pinot Noir. Might not be bad.