In the end, it was diminutive Venezuelan Marco Scutaro delivering as ballyhooed Venezuelan Miguel Cabrera struck out without offering a swing. The Giants earned their seventh World Championship, second in three years, as well as second since leaving New York and the Polo Grounds for San Francisco fifty-five seasons ago. The Giants won with good, old-fashioned pitching and with timely hitting. They overcame the odds by beating the Cincinnati Reds and St. Louis Cardinals while way down in each series, and then took the perhaps over-rested and complacent Detroit Tigers apart. Prince Fielder, the human vending machine, was a non-factor. Triple Crown-winning Cabrera managed but one wind-aided home run. Justin Verlander could not summon his superhuman fastball. Ex-Yankees Roberto Kelly and Dave Righetti are spritzing champagne. Tim Lincecum, who had a mysteriously down season, is doing the same. The Giants even won without super-closer Brian “The Beard” Wilson. Buster Posey and company are a fun team: They do not miss home-run-king Barry Bonds at all. The National League also has shown its superiority, over the past several seasons, in better World Series and All-Star Game performances. The long season is now over, in somewhat anticlimactic fashion; a little piece of me (Evander) dies with it. (And in the end, the baseball you take is equal to the baseball you make.)