The ultimate glossary of Mike Krukow and Duane Kuiper’s greatest sayings Editor’s note: Throughout this week, The Athletic will profile many of the broadcasters who have been nominated for the Baseball Hall of Fame’s Ford C. Frick Award. The next recipient of the award will be announced on Dec. 6 at the Winter Meetings. Read all of our stories on the nominees here. Find a Giants fan who doesn’t know anything about tennis in the late ’70s and early ’80s. Ask them to name five women tennis players from the era. There’s Billie Jean King, sure, and her brother even pitched for the Giants. There’s Martina Navratilova, of course. Chris Evert,
probably. Don’t be surprised if their first answer is Bettina Bunge. For years and years, possibly decades, Giants fans have heard Bunge’s name at least a few times every baseball season.
That’s because Mike Krukow learned a term from Bob Brenly for a fly ball that drops perfectly between an infielder and an outfielder. That kind of magic is known as a “Bettina Bunge backhand.” It’s a musical, alliterative phrase that’s been stuck in my head since the turn of the millennium, at least. Krukow uses it sparingly over the course of a season, but he always uses it at least a couple times a year. Did Bunge know about her prominence among Giants fans over the decades? “No, I had no idea until I got an email from the German Tennis Federation with your interview request,” Bunge said in a phone interview. “I’ve actually done a little research on it now, and I love baseball, although I don’t follow it. It’s very flattering, but I had no idea.” It’s a Krukowism, and those suckers are the greatest gifts that an announcer can possibly give their audience. But as far as gifts go, they’re tied with Kuiperisms, which are also the greatest gifts an announcer can give. Mike Krukow and Duane Kuiper are nominees for this year’s Ford C. Frick Award, presented to broadcasters who have made “major contributions to baseball.” It’s not technically the same thing as getting into the Hall of Fame, but it’s functionally the same thing. And according to the arbitrary rules of the institution, only one of them can make it at a time, which is ridiculous. It’s like bread getting into the Sandwich Hall of Fame, with meat having to wait indefinitely. They should both get the award at the same time, and they should share a suit with three-legged pants for their acceptance speech. Daniel Brown was way ahead of this idea, and he’s right. No one would be offended if the rules were changed to accommodate them riding a tandem bike from California to New York for the ceremony. That’s not going to happen, but it’s time to celebrate Kruk & Kuip. It’s always time to celebrate them, but this is the time to really celebrate them. To do that,
I’ve come up with a Kruk & Kuip Glossary, with as many terms and definitions as I could find. It’s an imperfect glossary, but it’s also a living glossary. Please add terms and definitions in the comments that I’ve missed. Now that I’m greased up, let’s stop jimmy-jacking around and put both cheeks into it. The Unofficial Kruk & Kuip Glossary 50-50 zone (Kruk) A check swing that is neither ball nor strike, the boundary between fury and repose. A base umpire can choose to call this a strike, or he can choose not to. The reasons for either are whimsical and arbitrary. They can decide games and seasons. Wilmer Flores’ check swing was most definitely not in the 50-50 zone. 60 pitches or less (Kruk) The goal of every pitcher through four innings. Fifteen pitches per inning — every inning from now to the end of time — that’s the goal. If you can throw fewer less, bully for you, but don’t exceed the maximum, or you’re going to be out of the game before you should be. Absolute pearl (Kruk) A perfect pitch or a perfect throw. Note that 95 percent of all pearls on the market aren’t natural, so make sure not to settle for just any ol’ pearl. You need an absolute pearl if you’re going to get Corbin Carroll on the back end of a double play. Action (Kuip) When baseball gets fun. This is a ball into Triples Alley or down the line with runners on base. Baseball is a game of inaction most of the time, even with the pitch clock. It’s stepping into the box and stepping out of the box. It’s taking a pitch for a ball, which gets you one closer to the pitch you really want. And if you get that pitch and drive it, well, we’ve got action. APWAS (Kruk) An athletic pat with a squeeze. Something with a little more meaning than the typical butt pat. Don’t just hand these out willy-nilly. These are for special occasions. Atom ball (Kruk & Kuip) A hard-hit line drive that goes right to a defensive player. Typically, this is an infielder, with rare exceptions for an outfielder. Pitchers don’t get atom balls; they get balls up the middle that will haunt their nightmares several decades later (Kruk). The etymology is fuzzy, but it sure seems like a portmanteau of “at” and “’em”. At ’em ball. When I found out it was “atom ball,” I took two days off work. Ball babes/dudes (Kruk & Kuip) The potential heroes of any given game. Their job is to collect the foul balls that go down the line, but they hang in the background like Chekhov’s gun, just waiting to insert themselves into the broadcast with humorous results. They can tumble, they can stumble, they can pick it, they can give a great effort, they can make the play of the year. Everything is on the table. The ultimate goal is camera time, which allows for riffing. Everything is better with riffing. Bettina Bunge backhand (Kruk) A perfectly placed ball to the outfield that falls between an infielder and an outfielder. Kruk’s former teammate, Bob Brenly, would describe these as “Bettina Bunge backhands,” and it’s a description that makes the airwaves several times every season. Bettina Bunge was a German tennis player known for her one-handed backhand. It was a powerful shot that was very unusual in women’s tennis at the time, but she could also use it for perfectly placed drop shots between the opponent and the net. Note: In our phone conversation, Bunge said that Tim Lincecum was much better looking with short hair. Agree to disagree. Big-league hang-with-em (Kruk) A rough outcome for a hitter. Sometimes it involves a sketchy call from the home-plate umpire, but other times it’s in reference to a perfectly placed, back-door two-seamer that just licks the edge of a strike zone. It’s a result that the hitter shouldn’t necessarily feel awful about. Sometimes baseball will yank on your nose hairs like that. Big-league knock (Kruk) A great outcome for a hitter, often a rookie getting his first hit. I would pay $100,000 for the feeling of just one big-league knock. Bingo Card (Kruk) A hitter with a batting average below .100. You do not want to have a batting average that reminds people of bingo cards. There is no B34 in baseball. There is no I34, N34 or G34 in baseball. There is an 034 in baseball, though, and if you have one, you’d better be a reliever. Boiler (Kruk & Kuip) A pronounced midsection on a male. Note that this isn’t the same thing as an individual who is larger than average. It’s a person who looks like he’s trying to shoplift a boiler from a hardware store. Head normal, arms normal, backside normal, legs normal, but in the middle, there’s a boiler. When I first heard Krukow use the term, I was a fit, dynamic 20-something with my life ahead of me. Now I’m a squishy 46-year-old male who enjoys bourbon and red meat, so I have a boiler. Getting mad at it is like getting mad at the phases of the moon. Both cheeks (Kruk & Kuip) How you hit baseballs hard. If you’re swinging a baseball bat, and one buttcheek is heading toward the pitcher, and another one is saying, “Nuh-uh, I’m staying right here,” you’re going to hit the ball 140 feet, and that’s if you’re lucky. When you get both cheeks into it, magical things happen. This isn’t just a baseball term, but it’s also a golf term, last used by me on the 14th hole of The Links at Bodega Harbour the day after Thanksgiving. I shot 150 or 160, give or take, but on that one tee shot? Both cheeks. And that’s what I shouted to everyone around me, who had no idea what I was talking about. Calories (Kruk) Units of energy that quantify how food can sustain a metabolism. They exist in every food item, except for the food that an adult is eating off a child’s plate. That food is scientifically proven to have zero calories. Crooked number (Kruk & Kuip) More than one run — and typically more than two runs — in an inning. Look at the relatively uncomplicated lines of this number: 1. Not a lot going on there. Straight lines all around. Even better, look at the simple 0. There isn’t anything crooked about it. A 2, though? Looking a little crooked. Don’t get me started on a 5 or a 7. Crooked as all heck. Crooked numbers will wreck your game, season or career, unless you’re the one putting them up. Then you’ll be very rich. Crooked numbers contain multitudes. Dag yabel GOT HIM (Kuip) Man, I have no idea what this is supposed to mean, but it’s beautiful. Shout out to Carmen Kiew for preserving it for posterity. Damage (Kuip) The number of runs that the non-Giants score in an inning. It’s typically invoked after a tough, grinding inning, with lots of base runners, pitches and stress. It’s used more in closer games, as opposed to blowouts, suggesting that it’s an obstacle that can be overcome. The damage is two runs. Could have been worse. The Giants are coming to bat. Dangerous (Kruk & Kuip) Someone — anyone — with a bat in their hands. Do not take them lightly. On Aug. 6, 1993, an Expos rookie named Kirk Rueter stepped to the plate for the sixth time in his major-league career. He didn’t have a hit in the majors yet. He was facing John Smoltz, who had made the All-Star Game the previous month and would make the Hall of Fame two decades later. There were two strikes, two outs and the bases were loaded. I’m not going to run the numbers on this, but it would have to be in the running for the lowest probability for a hit in the history of baseball. Rueter blooped a single. Two runs scored. The Expos blew the Braves out, 8-2, and it all started with Kirk Rueter with a bat in his hands. He was dangerous. Dart thrower (Kruk) Someone with uncanny command and control. They can hit the triple-20 at the top of the zone with their fastball. They can make you think they’re throwing a bullseye, but they’re actually putting it in the drywall just below the 3. Eats him up (Kruk & Kuip) What happens when a baseball is very, very, very, very, very hard to catch. It can happen to an infielder getting in front of a line drive, a first baseman trying to scoop a throw or a catcher trying to catch a scud (see below) that bounces off home plate with personality (also see below). Baseballs are hungry li’l fellows. Be careful out there. Elephant ear (Kruk & Kuip) When a base runner has a pocket hanging out. Don’t do this. You look like a fool. Emergency swings (Kruk & Kuip) A two-strike swing where a hitter has no intention of getting a hit or putting a ball in play. The only objective is to stay alive. It doesn’t matter how ugly the swing is. Krukow said that this emergency swing from Cody Bellinger suggested that he was looking for a curveball. Two pitches later, he got one, right in the middle of the strike zone, and he hit it for a grand slam. Emergency swings can have magic in them. Even for the wrong team. Excuse-me swing (Kruk) A swing that forces you to apologize, almost always a check swing with contact that goes foul. You had no business swinging. Look at what you’ve done. Excuse yourself. Free 90 feet (Kruk & Kuip) A walk, a wild pitch, a balk, an error, a passed ball or a stolen base by way of defensive indifference. This is the cardinal sin of baseball. Unless it’s Michael Wacha walking two batters ahead of Travis Ishikawa, which is the Cardinal gift of baseball. But, in general, you do not want to give away a free 90 feet. Those free 90 feet will doom you, every time. Gamer babes (Kruk) A woman wearing Giants gear. Sometimes they’re from Half Moon Bay. Sometimes they have a glove on, and they’re responsible for foul balls down the line. It’s a term that can inspire all sorts of dialogue, but I’m of the mind that it’s a harmless companion to “dude” in this specific context, even if it’s not harmless in other contexts. I mostly want to know why so many of them are from Half Moon Bay. Gloves (Kruk) Things you should bring to the yard. Bring your glove, get a ball. In 2005, Vinny Castilla hit a foul pop into the stands down the first-base line. I caught it. While video of the actual catch didn’t make the telecast, Krukow laughed at me, saying, “A guy caught it, and I have no idea how he did it, because he was looking at his shoes when the ball was coming down.” You know how I caught it? Because I brought my glove to the yard. Bring your glove to the yard. Good Giant (Kruk & Kuip) (also: Great Giant or Forever Giant) Almost every Giant was a good Giant. Almost every Giant was a forever Giant. There are exceptions. A.J. Pierzynski is off the mailing list. Melky Cabrera didn’t get invited to the 2012 reunion last year for a good reason. Orel Hershiser did his best, but he can also kick rocks. Duke Snider will never be described as a Good Giant or a Forever Giant. Brett Pill was a Good Giant. Maybe even a Great Giant or Forever Giant. This also applies to Tom Lampkin, Dante Powell, Shane Loux, Austin Jackson and countless others who were just passing through. Tony Perezchica, the third-base coach of the pennant-winning Arizona Diamondbacks? A Good, Great and Forever Giant. That’s just how it works. Good pitch, good take (Kruk) A nasty pitch out of the strike zone that the hitter doesn’t swing at. This is some of the purest baseball stuff you can find. I’ll argue that the appreciation of a good pitch or a good take is what separates the casuals from the hardcore baseball nerds. When someone like Camilo Doval throws a 102-mph fastball an inch off the top-inside corner of the strike zone and a hitter takes it, a normie might be mad at Doval for throwing a ball. A hardcore fan — the kind who subscribes to The Athletic, gift subscriptions available — knows that it was a good pitch and a good take. Greased up (Kruk) A reliever who is ready to come into the game. One minute, he’s creaking and clanking like a ’64 Nova, and the next minute he’s greased up. Beware ungreased relievers. Ground attack (Kuip) An inning that’s a fortuitous one for the team at bat, even though they’re hitting nubs and dribblers, infield hits off excuse-me swings. The Giants have won the World Series in seasons where they didn’t hit a single ball out of the infield. Look it up. Harvard of the West (Kruk) California State University, San Luis Obispo aka Cal-Poly, which is Krukow’s alma mater. It’s also the alma mater of Ozzie Smith, Kevin Correia and current Giant Mitch Haniger. It’s a really, really good school in a beautiful city, with some hyperbole added by Krukow for anyone who went there. I graduated from San José State, which is the SUNY Oswego of the West, so I can understand the pride. Heighth (Kruk) Some umpires give it, and some umpires don’t. And, oh yeah, Merriam-Webster would like to tell the nerds to shut up. It’s a word now. Language is fluid. Highs (Kruk) Anything above a 95-mph fastball. If you have more highs than mids, you’re throwing gas. Home (Kuip) Where you go after a walk-off win. You can stop at a bar, if that’s your thing. Maybe get a bite to eat. But eventually you’re going home, and it’s because of a baseball player doing a very specific baseball thing at the perfect time. Go home. Take a load off. Horse laugh (Kruk) A hearty chuckle, usually at someone else’s expense. Don’t be on the wrong end of a horse laugh, if you know what’s good for you. How games get started (Kuip) They start with a baseball play. Could be a grounder up the middle or a swinging strike three on a ball that hits Lou Seal. However the game starts, that’s how this game got started. If he hits that thing, it’s out of the park (Kruk) An attempted check swing that’s very clearly a swing. This is related to the 50-50 zone, but it’s reserved for attempted check swings that go a little too far. There’s a very notable exception, however. If an opposing player gets rung up on an attempted swing that’s in the 50-50 zone, it’s a ball with a chance to go over the fence, too. That’s the official rule, and it seems fair to me. Interstate (Kruk) A player hitting between .100 and .199. Better than the bingo card; worse than the Mendoza Line. A player who has one hit in nine at-bats is on the interstate. That same player getting a hit in his next at-bat is off the interstate. Jimmy-jacking around (Kruk) A most grievous offense. It’s such a grievous offense that players adamantly declare that they’re not jimmy-jacking around. They’ll get up there, and they’ll put both cheeks into a swing on a first-pitch fastball. The hitter isn’t jimmy-jacking around, and the pitcher certainly isn’t. Everyone’s got stuff to do, so let’s stop jimmy-jacking around. Laugher (Kruk) A blowout. At least, that’s what the original term was. If you won 13-0, you won a laugher. In the Mike Krukow Cinematic Universe, however, a laugher is an extremely stressful and barfy game, where the other team had a great chance to tie, take the lead or win outright. It’s when the Giants hang on by a fingernail and cheat death. The more death was cheated, the more laughs in the laugher. Some historical records tell the tale of an “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHA LAUGHER,” but that’s unconfirmed. Line drives (Kruk & Kuip) Every hit is one of them in the box score the next day. A broken-bat bloop. A 47-hopper that refuses to go foul, despite the best intentions and wishes of the third baseman. A short fly ball that gets lost in the sun and falls in front of a center fielder. They’re embarrassing when they happen, but the Line Drive Fairy visits all of them in the middle of the night and changes them into absolute scorchers, and they will remain that way on Baseball-Reference for the rest of eternity. Lows (Kruk) A fastball between 90 and 93 mph. Note that a pitcher who throws more lows than mids can also dip into the high-80s, but that still counts as a low, even though it’s a high. You know it when you see it. Magic wandoo (Kruk & Kuip) A bat with magical powers. Some tell tales of being tossed a magic wandoo by the Lady of the Cove — whose briny hand emerges from the water near the Willie McCovey statue, but those are unconfirmed. A hitter with the magic wandoo cannot be retired. Refer back to the “Line drives” entry to get an idea of the kinds of hits this enchanted weapon can offer. However, actual line drives and scorchers can also lead to a normal bat becoming a magic wandoo, at which point, the hits will keep falling, regardless of the quality of contact and exit velocity. The greatest example in my lifetime belonged to Terrell Lowery in 2000. The magic wandoo was so powerful that it consumed him, and he never appeared in the majors again. Max and Molly’s kid (Kruk & Kuip) Will Venable, former Padres outfielder and current associate manager to Bruce Bochy (the king of all That Guys, see below). He was almost certainly on the shortlist to replace Gabe Kapler as Giants manager, which might have accidentally forced an early retirement to the bit, but he declined to interview for any opening this offseason. He remains Max and Molly’s kid. Measure (Kruk & Kuip) What you do with a pitch down the middle of the strike zone that’s taken for a strike. You study it. You gauge the velocity, the spin, the movement, the release. And after you’ve measured the first pitch, you rake the second one. At least, in theory. One to measure, one to rake. This one is also great for golf. When you chunk one out of bounds off the tee, that’s one to measure, and it doesn’t count. You get to rake the next one without a penalty. Meat (Kruk) An opposing player. A fan who interferes with a ball in play. An opposing manager arguing with the umpire. You, the person reading this right now, might qualify as Meat. Look, you seem nice, but you know what you’ve done. But it’s most commonly used to describe a player who just struck out and is heading back to the dugout. (See the entry for “Pine” below.) Mids (Kruk) Anything between a 92-mph fastball and a 96-mph fastball. If you have more mids than highs, you’re a pretty non-descript pitcher, at least as raw velocity goes. You can make up for this by being a dart thrower. Minutes (Kuip) Important measurement of time. You only get so many of them in your lifetime, and they’re precious. One day you find 10 years have got behind you. No one told you when to run; you missed the starting gun. For goodness’ sake, don’t just waste minutes like you have an inexhaustible supply. I promise you, they will run out. This is why it’s very, very important to start baseball games on time. Not sure if the umpires are jimmy-jacking around, or if it’s a team taking the field too late, but c’mon. Let’s go, meat. No-dot slider (Kruk) The pitch that allowed Sergio Romo to pitch 15 years in the major leagues. With most sliders, the seams on the baseball rotate in such a way that they look like a telltale dot in the middle of the white orb coming toward you. Romo’s didn’t have it, which meant his slider was so good, that it could possibly force one of the greatest hitters in baseball history to look for it with two strikes and the World Series on the line. Romo is not the only pitcher with a no-dot slider, however. Every so often, there will be a slider that is anointed with the term, and it’s the highest praise imaginable. What are you doing reading this when you could be teaching your son or daughter to throw a no-dot slider? None speed (Kruk) An uncommonly slow player. Please do not share this phrase with my teenage daughter, for I fear she will roast me into the ground with it. Not a threat to steal (Kruk) A player on first base with none speed. Nutted (Kruk) A baseball that is hit very hard. If you take one to measure, the goal is to rake a line drive that’s absolutely nutted. Oil (Kruk) A viscous substance that resides in the body of every major-league player. It’s what separates them from you and me. Baseball players have oil. We don’t. However, that oil is kept in place by a thin membrane, which can be ruptured by running too hard for too long. Occasionally, players will start leaking oil as they round second base or head home. It’s actually a very serious medical condition, and it’s not funny at all. Hold the players who are leaking oil between second and third in your thoughts. Ooooooollllld left-hander (Kruk) A left-handed pitcher who has been in the league for at least nine seasons. Typically a reliever, and very often a lefty-specialist. In days of yore, they would often come with boilers (see above), but an ooooooollllld left-hander with a boiler is a vanishing breed these days. It’s the danged weights and the quinoa. Starting pitchers can be ooooooollllld left-handers, too, but it’s rare. Madison Bumgarner was an ooooooollllld left-hander by the time he was 29, but if you called him that, he would have dunked your head in a public toilet. Ownage (Kruk & Kuip)
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I’ve come up with a Kruk & Kuip Glossary, with as many terms and definitions as I could find. It’s an imperfect glossary, but it’s also a living glossary. Please add terms and definitions in the comments that I’ve missed. Now that I’m greased up, let’s stop jimmy-jacking around and put both cheeks into it. The Unofficial Kruk & Kuip Glossary 50-50 zone (Kruk) A check swing that is neither ball nor strike, the boundary between fury and repose. A base umpire can choose to call this a strike, or he can choose not to. The reasons for either are whimsical and arbitrary. They can decide games and seasons. Wilmer Flores’ check swing was most definitely not in the 50-50 zone. 60 pitches or less (Kruk) The goal of every pitcher through four innings. Fifteen pitches per inning — every inning from now to the end of time — that’s the goal. If you can throw fewer less, bully for you, but don’t exceed the maximum, or you’re going to be out of the game before you should be. Absolute pearl (Kruk) A perfect pitch or a perfect throw. Note that 95 percent of all pearls on the market aren’t natural, so make sure not to settle for just any ol’ pearl. You need an absolute pearl if you’re going to get Corbin Carroll on the back end of a double play. Action (Kuip) When baseball gets fun. This is a ball into Triples Alley or down the line with runners on base. Baseball is a game of inaction most of the time, even with the pitch clock. It’s stepping into the box and stepping out of the box. It’s taking a pitch for a ball, which gets you one closer to the pitch you really want. And if you get that pitch and drive it, well, we’ve got action. APWAS (Kruk) An athletic pat with a squeeze. Something with a little more meaning than the typical butt pat. Don’t just hand these out willy-nilly. These are for special occasions. Atom ball (Kruk & Kuip) A hard-hit line drive that goes right to a defensive player. Typically, this is an infielder, with rare exceptions for an outfielder. Pitchers don’t get atom balls; they get balls up the middle that will haunt their nightmares several decades later (Kruk). The etymology is fuzzy, but it sure seems like a portmanteau of “at” and “’em”. At ’em ball. When I found out it was “atom ball,” I took two days off work. Ball babes/dudes (Kruk & Kuip) The potential heroes of any given game. Their job is to collect the foul balls that go down the line, but they hang in the background like Chekhov’s gun, just waiting to insert themselves into the broadcast with humorous results. They can tumble, they can stumble, they can pick it, they can give a great effort, they can make the play of the year. Everything is on the table. The ultimate goal is camera time, which allows for riffing. Everything is better with riffing. Bettina Bunge backhand (Kruk) A perfectly placed ball to the outfield that falls between an infielder and an outfielder. Kruk’s former teammate, Bob Brenly, would describe these as “Bettina Bunge backhands,” and it’s a description that makes the airwaves several times every season. Bettina Bunge was a German tennis player known for her one-handed backhand. It was a powerful shot that was very unusual in women’s tennis at the time, but she could also use it for perfectly placed drop shots between the opponent and the net. Note: In our phone conversation, Bunge said that Tim Lincecum was much better looking with short hair. Agree to disagree. Big-league hang-with-em (Kruk) A rough outcome for a hitter. Sometimes it involves a sketchy call from the home-plate umpire, but other times it’s in reference to a perfectly placed, back-door two-seamer that just licks the edge of a strike zone. It’s a result that the hitter shouldn’t necessarily feel awful about. Sometimes baseball will yank on your nose hairs like that. Big-league knock (Kruk) A great outcome for a hitter, often a rookie getting his first hit. I would pay $100,000 for the feeling of just one big-league knock. Bingo Card (Kruk) A hitter with a batting average below .100. You do not want to have a batting average that reminds people of bingo cards. There is no B34 in baseball. There is no I34, N34 or G34 in baseball. There is an 034 in baseball, though, and if you have one, you’d better be a reliever. Boiler (Kruk & Kuip) A pronounced midsection on a male. Note that this isn’t the same thing as an individual who is larger than average. It’s a person who looks like he’s trying to shoplift a boiler from a hardware store. Head normal, arms normal, backside normal, legs normal, but in the middle, there’s a boiler. When I first heard Krukow use the term, I was a fit, dynamic 20-something with my life ahead of me. Now I’m a squishy 46-year-old male who enjoys bourbon and red meat, so I have a boiler. Getting mad at it is like getting mad at the phases of the moon. Both cheeks (Kruk & Kuip) How you hit baseballs hard. If you’re swinging a baseball bat, and one buttcheek is heading toward the pitcher, and another one is saying, “Nuh-uh, I’m staying right here,” you’re going to hit the ball 140 feet, and that’s if you’re lucky. When you get both cheeks into it, magical things happen. This isn’t just a baseball term, but it’s also a golf term, last used by me on the 14th hole of The Links at Bodega Harbour the day after Thanksgiving. I shot 150 or 160, give or take, but on that one tee shot? Both cheeks. And that’s what I shouted to everyone around me, who had no idea what I was talking about. Calories (Kruk) Units of energy that quantify how food can sustain a metabolism. They exist in every food item, except for the food that an adult is eating off a child’s plate. That food is scientifically proven to have zero calories. Crooked number (Kruk & Kuip) More than one run — and typically more than two runs — in an inning. Look at the relatively uncomplicated lines of this number: 1. Not a lot going on there. Straight lines all around. Even better, look at the simple 0. There isn’t anything crooked about it. A 2, though? Looking a little crooked. Don’t get me started on a 5 or a 7. Crooked as all heck. Crooked numbers will wreck your game, season or career, unless you’re the one putting them up. Then you’ll be very rich. Crooked numbers contain multitudes. Dag yabel GOT HIM (Kuip) Man, I have no idea what this is supposed to mean, but it’s beautiful. Shout out to Carmen Kiew for preserving it for posterity. Damage (Kuip) The number of runs that the non-Giants score in an inning. It’s typically invoked after a tough, grinding inning, with lots of base runners, pitches and stress. It’s used more in closer games, as opposed to blowouts, suggesting that it’s an obstacle that can be overcome. The damage is two runs. Could have been worse. The Giants are coming to bat. Dangerous (Kruk & Kuip) Someone — anyone — with a bat in their hands. Do not take them lightly. On Aug. 6, 1993, an Expos rookie named Kirk Rueter stepped to the plate for the sixth time in his major-league career. He didn’t have a hit in the majors yet. He was facing John Smoltz, who had made the All-Star Game the previous month and would make the Hall of Fame two decades later. There were two strikes, two outs and the bases were loaded. I’m not going to run the numbers on this, but it would have to be in the running for the lowest probability for a hit in the history of baseball. Rueter blooped a single. Two runs scored. The Expos blew the Braves out, 8-2, and it all started with Kirk Rueter with a bat in his hands. He was dangerous. Dart thrower (Kruk) Someone with uncanny command and control. They can hit the triple-20 at the top of the zone with their fastball. They can make you think they’re throwing a bullseye, but they’re actually putting it in the drywall just below the 3. Eats him up (Kruk & Kuip) What happens when a baseball is very, very, very, very, very hard to catch. It can happen to an infielder getting in front of a line drive, a first baseman trying to scoop a throw or a catcher trying to catch a scud (see below) that bounces off home plate with personality (also see below). Baseballs are hungry li’l fellows. Be careful out there. Elephant ear (Kruk & Kuip) When a base runner has a pocket hanging out. Don’t do this. You look like a fool. Emergency swings (Kruk & Kuip) A two-strike swing where a hitter has no intention of getting a hit or putting a ball in play. The only objective is to stay alive. It doesn’t matter how ugly the swing is. Krukow said that this emergency swing from Cody Bellinger suggested that he was looking for a curveball. Two pitches later, he got one, right in the middle of the strike zone, and he hit it for a grand slam. Emergency swings can have magic in them. Even for the wrong team. Excuse-me swing (Kruk) A swing that forces you to apologize, almost always a check swing with contact that goes foul. You had no business swinging. Look at what you’ve done. Excuse yourself. Free 90 feet (Kruk & Kuip) A walk, a wild pitch, a balk, an error, a passed ball or a stolen base by way of defensive indifference. This is the cardinal sin of baseball. Unless it’s Michael Wacha walking two batters ahead of Travis Ishikawa, which is the Cardinal gift of baseball. But, in general, you do not want to give away a free 90 feet. Those free 90 feet will doom you, every time. Gamer babes (Kruk) A woman wearing Giants gear. Sometimes they’re from Half Moon Bay. Sometimes they have a glove on, and they’re responsible for foul balls down the line. It’s a term that can inspire all sorts of dialogue, but I’m of the mind that it’s a harmless companion to “dude” in this specific context, even if it’s not harmless in other contexts. I mostly want to know why so many of them are from Half Moon Bay. Gloves (Kruk) Things you should bring to the yard. Bring your glove, get a ball. In 2005, Vinny Castilla hit a foul pop into the stands down the first-base line. I caught it. While video of the actual catch didn’t make the telecast, Krukow laughed at me, saying, “A guy caught it, and I have no idea how he did it, because he was looking at his shoes when the ball was coming down.” You know how I caught it? Because I brought my glove to the yard. Bring your glove to the yard. Good Giant (Kruk & Kuip) (also: Great Giant or Forever Giant) Almost every Giant was a good Giant. Almost every Giant was a forever Giant. There are exceptions. A.J. Pierzynski is off the mailing list. Melky Cabrera didn’t get invited to the 2012 reunion last year for a good reason. Orel Hershiser did his best, but he can also kick rocks. Duke Snider will never be described as a Good Giant or a Forever Giant. Brett Pill was a Good Giant. Maybe even a Great Giant or Forever Giant. This also applies to Tom Lampkin, Dante Powell, Shane Loux, Austin Jackson and countless others who were just passing through. Tony Perezchica, the third-base coach of the pennant-winning Arizona Diamondbacks? A Good, Great and Forever Giant. That’s just how it works. Good pitch, good take (Kruk) A nasty pitch out of the strike zone that the hitter doesn’t swing at. This is some of the purest baseball stuff you can find. I’ll argue that the appreciation of a good pitch or a good take is what separates the casuals from the hardcore baseball nerds. When someone like Camilo Doval throws a 102-mph fastball an inch off the top-inside corner of the strike zone and a hitter takes it, a normie might be mad at Doval for throwing a ball. A hardcore fan — the kind who subscribes to The Athletic, gift subscriptions available — knows that it was a good pitch and a good take. Greased up (Kruk) A reliever who is ready to come into the game. One minute, he’s creaking and clanking like a ’64 Nova, and the next minute he’s greased up. Beware ungreased relievers. Ground attack (Kuip) An inning that’s a fortuitous one for the team at bat, even though they’re hitting nubs and dribblers, infield hits off excuse-me swings. The Giants have won the World Series in seasons where they didn’t hit a single ball out of the infield. Look it up. Harvard of the West (Kruk) California State University, San Luis Obispo aka Cal-Poly, which is Krukow’s alma mater. It’s also the alma mater of Ozzie Smith, Kevin Correia and current Giant Mitch Haniger. It’s a really, really good school in a beautiful city, with some hyperbole added by Krukow for anyone who went there. I graduated from San José State, which is the SUNY Oswego of the West, so I can understand the pride. Heighth (Kruk) Some umpires give it, and some umpires don’t. And, oh yeah, Merriam-Webster would like to tell the nerds to shut up. It’s a word now. Language is fluid. Highs (Kruk) Anything above a 95-mph fastball. If you have more highs than mids, you’re throwing gas. Home (Kuip) Where you go after a walk-off win. You can stop at a bar, if that’s your thing. Maybe get a bite to eat. But eventually you’re going home, and it’s because of a baseball player doing a very specific baseball thing at the perfect time. Go home. Take a load off. Horse laugh (Kruk) A hearty chuckle, usually at someone else’s expense. Don’t be on the wrong end of a horse laugh, if you know what’s good for you. How games get started (Kuip) They start with a baseball play. Could be a grounder up the middle or a swinging strike three on a ball that hits Lou Seal. However the game starts, that’s how this game got started. If he hits that thing, it’s out of the park (Kruk) An attempted check swing that’s very clearly a swing. This is related to the 50-50 zone, but it’s reserved for attempted check swings that go a little too far. There’s a very notable exception, however. If an opposing player gets rung up on an attempted swing that’s in the 50-50 zone, it’s a ball with a chance to go over the fence, too. That’s the official rule, and it seems fair to me. Interstate (Kruk) A player hitting between .100 and .199. Better than the bingo card; worse than the Mendoza Line. A player who has one hit in nine at-bats is on the interstate. That same player getting a hit in his next at-bat is off the interstate. Jimmy-jacking around (Kruk) A most grievous offense. It’s such a grievous offense that players adamantly declare that they’re not jimmy-jacking around. They’ll get up there, and they’ll put both cheeks into a swing on a first-pitch fastball. The hitter isn’t jimmy-jacking around, and the pitcher certainly isn’t. Everyone’s got stuff to do, so let’s stop jimmy-jacking around. Laugher (Kruk) A blowout. At least, that’s what the original term was. If you won 13-0, you won a laugher. In the Mike Krukow Cinematic Universe, however, a laugher is an extremely stressful and barfy game, where the other team had a great chance to tie, take the lead or win outright. It’s when the Giants hang on by a fingernail and cheat death. The more death was cheated, the more laughs in the laugher. Some historical records tell the tale of an “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHA LAUGHER,” but that’s unconfirmed. Line drives (Kruk & Kuip) Every hit is one of them in the box score the next day. A broken-bat bloop. A 47-hopper that refuses to go foul, despite the best intentions and wishes of the third baseman. A short fly ball that gets lost in the sun and falls in front of a center fielder. They’re embarrassing when they happen, but the Line Drive Fairy visits all of them in the middle of the night and changes them into absolute scorchers, and they will remain that way on Baseball-Reference for the rest of eternity. Lows (Kruk) A fastball between 90 and 93 mph. Note that a pitcher who throws more lows than mids can also dip into the high-80s, but that still counts as a low, even though it’s a high. You know it when you see it. Magic wandoo (Kruk & Kuip) A bat with magical powers. Some tell tales of being tossed a magic wandoo by the Lady of the Cove — whose briny hand emerges from the water near the Willie McCovey statue, but those are unconfirmed. A hitter with the magic wandoo cannot be retired. Refer back to the “Line drives” entry to get an idea of the kinds of hits this enchanted weapon can offer. However, actual line drives and scorchers can also lead to a normal bat becoming a magic wandoo, at which point, the hits will keep falling, regardless of the quality of contact and exit velocity. The greatest example in my lifetime belonged to Terrell Lowery in 2000. The magic wandoo was so powerful that it consumed him, and he never appeared in the majors again. Max and Molly’s kid (Kruk & Kuip) Will Venable, former Padres outfielder and current associate manager to Bruce Bochy (the king of all That Guys, see below). He was almost certainly on the shortlist to replace Gabe Kapler as Giants manager, which might have accidentally forced an early retirement to the bit, but he declined to interview for any opening this offseason. He remains Max and Molly’s kid. Measure (Kruk & Kuip) What you do with a pitch down the middle of the strike zone that’s taken for a strike. You study it. You gauge the velocity, the spin, the movement, the release. And after you’ve measured the first pitch, you rake the second one. At least, in theory. One to measure, one to rake. This one is also great for golf. When you chunk one out of bounds off the tee, that’s one to measure, and it doesn’t count. You get to rake the next one without a penalty. Meat (Kruk) An opposing player. A fan who interferes with a ball in play. An opposing manager arguing with the umpire. You, the person reading this right now, might qualify as Meat. Look, you seem nice, but you know what you’ve done. But it’s most commonly used to describe a player who just struck out and is heading back to the dugout. (See the entry for “Pine” below.) Mids (Kruk) Anything between a 92-mph fastball and a 96-mph fastball. If you have more mids than highs, you’re a pretty non-descript pitcher, at least as raw velocity goes. You can make up for this by being a dart thrower. Minutes (Kuip) Important measurement of time. You only get so many of them in your lifetime, and they’re precious. One day you find 10 years have got behind you. No one told you when to run; you missed the starting gun. For goodness’ sake, don’t just waste minutes like you have an inexhaustible supply. I promise you, they will run out. This is why it’s very, very important to start baseball games on time. Not sure if the umpires are jimmy-jacking around, or if it’s a team taking the field too late, but c’mon. Let’s go, meat. No-dot slider (Kruk) The pitch that allowed Sergio Romo to pitch 15 years in the major leagues. With most sliders, the seams on the baseball rotate in such a way that they look like a telltale dot in the middle of the white orb coming toward you. Romo’s didn’t have it, which meant his slider was so good, that it could possibly force one of the greatest hitters in baseball history to look for it with two strikes and the World Series on the line. Romo is not the only pitcher with a no-dot slider, however. Every so often, there will be a slider that is anointed with the term, and it’s the highest praise imaginable. What are you doing reading this when you could be teaching your son or daughter to throw a no-dot slider? None speed (Kruk) An uncommonly slow player. Please do not share this phrase with my teenage daughter, for I fear she will roast me into the ground with it. Not a threat to steal (Kruk) A player on first base with none speed. Nutted (Kruk) A baseball that is hit very hard. If you take one to measure, the goal is to rake a line drive that’s absolutely nutted. Oil (Kruk) A viscous substance that resides in the body of every major-league player. It’s what separates them from you and me. Baseball players have oil. We don’t. However, that oil is kept in place by a thin membrane, which can be ruptured by running too hard for too long. Occasionally, players will start leaking oil as they round second base or head home. It’s actually a very serious medical condition, and it’s not funny at all. Hold the players who are leaking oil between second and third in your thoughts. Ooooooollllld left-hander (Kruk) A left-handed pitcher who has been in the league for at least nine seasons. Typically a reliever, and very often a lefty-specialist. In days of yore, they would often come with boilers (see above), but an ooooooollllld left-hander with a boiler is a vanishing breed these days. It’s the danged weights and the quinoa. Starting pitchers can be ooooooollllld left-handers, too, but it’s rare. Madison Bumgarner was an ooooooollllld left-hander by the time he was 29, but if you called him that, he would have dunked your head in a public toilet. Ownage (Kruk & Kuip)