I woke up this morning hardly believing that last night happened. It really, truly happened. The Giants won the World Series for the first time in 56 years, effectively ending the San Francisco drought. The heartbreak of three previous attempts at the title was erased in one swing of the bat by Edgar Renteria. It was extinguished by one slider from Brian Wilson. The torture. Is. Over.

Hoist that trophy boys.

I may be in Seattle, but I can’t count the amount of times I’ve been stopped by a fellow Giants fan stuck in the Northwest. The long-awaited parade down Market Street goes down tomorrow. I may not be able to be there myself, but let it be known that I would do horrible unspeakable things to join the Giants faithful down in San Francisco right now.

Remember when Jose Castillo was our starting third-baseman? Remember when Scott Spiezio broke the hearts of an entire city with one fateful swing? Where were you when Michael Tucker was the everyday right fielder? There was a time where Jim Brower was our ace reliever. Brad Hennessey was our closer. Jesse Foppert, Kurt Ainsworth, and Jerome Williams were thought to be the future of the rotation. No more. Today, the Giants are unequivocally the best team in all of baseball.

Let it sink in for awhile, because I know I still can’t believe it. They won the World Series. Give the champagne some time to dry off, and bask in the beauty of this statement. Is this heaven?