The Men You Love to Hate

This being the 50th anniversary of Bobby Thomson’s “Shot Heard ‘Round the World, as if Anybody Still Gives a Rip,” I have a confession.

I hate the Giants.

I hate Dusty Baker’s toothpick.

I hate trash-blown memories of Candlestick Park.

I hate the left elbow of Dietz, Dick.

I hate that it wasn’t me who once said, “Halloween is a lousy day because its colors are orange and black.”

That would be Duke Snider, and I love him for it.

Mine is an acquired distaste, cultivated while spending most of my adult life among thousands who feel precisely as I do.

Live in Los Angeles long enough, and you learn to despise all things self-assured and San Franciscan. Hang around baseball long enough, and you realize nothing epitomizes both traits more than the Giants.

Then, of course, there’s also this:

I hate the Giants because I just do.

I hate that all five photos on the cover of their 2001 media guide are of Southern California natives--Dusty Baker, Barry Bonds, Jeff Kent, J.T. Snow, Robb Nen.

Shouldn’t we at least start charging rent?

I hate what Will Clark said to the media after the Giants knocked the Dodgers out of the National League West race on the final weekend of 1991:

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.”

I hate that I wasn’t there when the Dodgers paid them back in 1993 with a 12-1 victory at Dodger Stadium that gave the division title to the Atlanta Braves.

I loved that the win took place on Oct. 3, the same date that Thomson and Joe Morgan and Jim Davenport broke Dodger hearts years earlier.

Did I say I hate Morgan? And that I’m not the only one?

For years after his 1982 home run ended the Dodger division hopes, when he would stroll proudly through the Dodger clubhouse as a broadcaster, Morgan would be confronted by old-timer stares and muffled curses.

I hate that Orel Hershiser once wore a Giant uniform.

I hate that Ron Perranoski and Joe Amalfitano still do.

I hate that Alvin Dark felt he couldn’t beat Maury Wills without a garden hose.

I hate that Juan Marichal felt he couldn’t beat John Roseboro without a bat.

I hate that Walter Alston ordered Ed Bailey intentionally walked to load the bases in the ninth inning of that 1962 playoff, then left Stan Williams in the game to walk Davenport with the winning run and the pennant.

While Don Drysdale watched from the bullpen.

I hate that Snider ended his career as a Giant.

I hate that Marichal ended his career as a Dodger.

I hate that outside the Giants’ trendy tourist attraction of a ballpark, a stinky body of water is named after a player. You know, McCovey Cove.

Any day now, the hills gently rising above the Dodger Stadium outfield pavilions are going to be named Koufax Korner.

Not.

I love that the Giants couldn’t think of McCovey Cove themselves, that it took a San Jose Mercury News sports columnist named Mark Purdy to act as their creative genius.

I hate that the Giants have such front-office depth, one of baseball’s smartest guys--Ned Colletti--is only their assistant general manager.

I hate that the Dodgers don’t even have a general manager.

I hate that anybody would think this column had anything to do with jealousy.

I hate that, according to a definitive story in the Wall Street Journal, the Giants stole opponents’ signs with a center-field telescope during the last two months of the 1951 season. This means they didn’t catch the Dodgers, they cheated them.

I am also not the least bit surprised.

I hate that longtime Dodger traveling secretary Billy DeLury still tells the story of being sent back to Ebbets Field from the Polo Grounds to work on World Series tickets before Thomson came to the plate in the ninth inning of that 1951 playoff game.

When DeLury stepped on the subway at Coogan’s Bluff, the Dodgers had seemingly won the pennant. When he stepped off the subway in Flatbush, a bum told him the Dodgers did not.

I hate that Russ Hodges couldn’t say it only once. You know, “The Giants win the pennant!” Period.

Vin Scully would have said it only once.

I hate that since becoming Giant boss in 1993, Dusty Baker has outmanaged every Dodger counterpart in every season.

Until this one.

I hate that Bonds did a pirouette after a home run in 1997 that started a series sweep that finished the Dodgers.

I hate it worse that not one Dodger pitcher has made him even think about it since then. I’m not talking beanball. I’m only talking breeze-behind-the-butt ball.

I hate that Dietz could have ended Drysdale’s eventual 58-inning scoreless streak in 1968 when he refused to get out of the way of a pitch that hit him in the elbow with the bases loaded.

I love umpire Harry Wendelstedt for noticing, and calling the pitch a ball, allowing Drysdale to work fairly out of the jam and extend his streak to 41 innings.

I hate that Reggie Smith went into the Candlestick Park stands, no matter how much he was harassed.

I love that Smith later said the hardest part about playing left field there was dealing with the strong, constant smell of marijuana.

Did I say I hate Brian Johnson? This spring at Vero Beach, where he trained with the Dodgers before joining their triple-A team in Las Vegas, I even told him so.

“I still remember that home run you hit in 1997, and I hate you,” I said.

Like any good Giant, he said, “Thank you.”

I hate that hating can be so much fun.

I hate that at the end of Jackie Robinson’s career, the Dodgers traded him to the Giants.

I love--almost as much as life itself--that Robinson retired instead.

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Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com.