Giants 3, Rangers 1: Edgar Renteria rode pine for months this season, fighting, age infirmity and ineffectiveness and was seemingly marking time until he could retire and return to Colombia where family and business ventures wait. He wouldn’t have been playing much if at all in this World Series had it not been for Pablo Sandoval and Mike Fontenot screwing up at third base and forcing Bruce Bochy to play Juan Uribe there. He was an afterthought of a player who hasn’t wielded lumber or flashed leather with purpose for years. But with one swing against a pitcher who had been described as unbeatable at times this postseason, he became the World Series MVP. If he follows through on the many suggestions he’s dropped this year and retires, he’ll have ended his career the way most of us came to know of it back in 1997: as a World Series hero.
Tim Lincecum, Matt Cain, Madison Bumgarner, Buster Posey and Brian Wilson’s presence puts lie to the notion — a notion you’ll probably hear a lot of in the coming days — that the Giants are a team of misfits and nobodies. Those guys are superstars, and they don’t win this thing without them. But there’s something beautiful about the final game’s runs being driven in by a spare part whose race has all but been run