My season is over, but I have many memories of it that I'll carry forever. When you play with a group of spontaneous guys, some with Paul Newman-meets-Eric Byrnes personalities, there are bound to be memorable moments. Sometimes it feels like I'm part of MTV's The Hills instead of a Class AA baseball team.

Here are a few of my favorite moments:

April 6. One of our pitchers was hypothesizing on the popular stereotype about Dominicans throwing hard. His theory was that they throw rocks at birds all day long. As he said this, a giant bird fell into our dugout, shrieking in pain.

Our mascot, daring to fly like the eagle he is, had fallen from atop the dugout. Even after questioning by police, it never could be proved that any of our Dominican pitchers were involved. (FYI: "Cutter" was soon back in action, after suffering a broken finger and a mild concussion.)

May 1 through ... well, actually the entire year. La Guerra de los Guantes (War of the Gloves) commenced. As the temperatures rose above 60 degrees, the boredom factor in the bullpen rose as well. To deal with it, our pitchers began hiding each other's gloves.

If a bathroom break was needed, a glove was in danger. One glove was even buried, and another was thrown on top of a gazebo. At one point, I thought the local drug-sniffing German shepherd was going to have to be called in.

June 6. One of our fielders, after being ragged for an entire series by an opposing team's super fan, decided to take matters into his own hands, literally. At the end of an inning, he slyly took a handful of dirt, ran over to the stands and dumped the dirt into the guy's beer. I have no word on whether "Dirtball's" actions actually reduced the heckling.

June 18. After tiring of the glove war, la Guerra del Chicle began in our bullpen. A piece of gum was chewed for about five seconds, made into a ball and placed on the top of the hat, and flicked into the outfield as far as possible. At its peak, this was repeated hundreds of times a game.

Some outfielders weren't too happy to have gum rockets shooting at them during the middle of the game. Others were equally unreceptive in non-game situations, as gum has an uncanny ability to stick to both backs and shoes while stretching. After fierce negotiating, a cease-fire finally was negotiated.

June 29. During the mascot race for the day, some fans probably noticed that one of the mascots had on cleats and gray pants. In fact, one of our pitchers was disguised as a bottle of BBQ sauce. Despite being a professional baseball player, he failed to win the race.

If that weren't bad enough, the guy decided to top himself the next day. All the kids at the game were invited to run across the outfield during the middle of the seventh inning. Led by field workers dressed as superheroes, one of the caped crusaders again happened to be wearing baseball pants and cleats. This time, perhaps aided by his cape, "Wonderboy" won the race.

July 17. I bowled a 300 game ... lefthanded. OK, so this didn't really happen.

August 23. Every team has at least one "super fan." Ours likes to wear a cheerleading outfit and "lead" the crowd in the "Cotton-Eye Joe" dance each game. One of our radio guys decided to challenge her to an in-game dance-off. As they got on the field, however, she learned that the song would not be her beloved jig, but instead would be "Billie Jean." She panicked and backed out of the dance-off. Our radio guy was still a good sport, and he put on a solid moon-walking display. For his efforts, we stopped making fun of him for the rest of the season. All two weeks of it.

The most memorable moments aren't necessarily the most important moments of the season. By simply being memorable, though, I guess they gain importance.

There are many other moments that escape my memory, but I'll probably hear about them next spring training. These tales will be retold, and probably expanded upon, by many guys for many years. It's all part of the experience of playing in the minor leagues.

Garrett Broshuis is a starting pitcher in the Giants' organization. E-mail him at gbroshuis@sportingnews.com.

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My last start arrived with our team sputtering toward the finish line. It seemed the power cord to our playoff push had been cut, and instead of soaring, we found ourselves slowly crawling along the home stretch.

Some suggested that our minds were in other places. With an eye on offseason plans, perhaps we weren't adequately preparing for the games and were losing concentration.

It also is possible that we set our eyes on finishing strong and on improving our stats. Instead of not preparing, we actually might have been pressing. This might have been my personal August problem. In my previous start, in which I gave up five runs in six innings, I wanted badly to make my last home start a good one. Perhaps I pressed a little in attempting to do so.

These are two divergent and completely different problems, but they are problems nonetheless. It is with this backdrop that I prepared for my last start.

Sitting in the clubhouse a couple of hours before that last game, a curious feeling possessed me. It wasn't a particularly strong emotion, but it was atypical. It wasn't the spike of adrenaline and anxiety that comes before a really important game, but something extra was there that usually isn't present before a normal start. There was almost a degree of sadness alongside the standard heightened awareness that accompanied my preparatory thoughts.

As I left the clubhouse about 30 minutes before the game, sprinkles fell from the sky. The grass was slightly wet as I warmed up and stretched, and I prepared both my body and mind for the job ahead.

The game began a little behind schedule -- always a slight annoyance for the starting pitcher. We script our warmups with precision, and end our last pitch in the bullpen at a certain time -- with the expectation that the game will start on schedule. A delay of only a few minutes can feel like an eternity. Such is the magnifying effect of anxiety weighing on the mind.

The game, imitating the weather, was less than spectacular. It never turned too dark or gloomy, but a few sprinkles fell in the form of a steady stream of singles. As a result, I pitched in and out of trouble, managing to limit the damage to only two runs.

I was removed from the game with two outs in the seventh inning after giving up two runs. My season was over, and this time the emotion was easy to identify: relief. With each breath, it seemed I let out more and more of the pent-up nervousness and anxiety that had built over the course of the season. Six months of baseball is mentally taxing, and it was a relief to finally be relieved of the self-inflicted pressure from the expectations that I had placed on myself.

Hugs and handshakes abounded. With a small smile on my face, I remained in the dugout and turned to the only job that I had left. I cheered on my teammates, each of whom still was trying to spin a positive end to his season.

As I did this, I also began the process of reflection. For a few moments, the focus was no longer on the present and the future, but on the accomplishments and failures of the past. I examined my work, precariously carved out for six months.

The season is a tumultuous sculpture built in an environment of continued unknowns. We play in a world of uncertainties, and there are always surprises and setbacks. During the building process, the focus is always on the present and future. When the work is finished, though, a short pause is allotted to admire success, or to contemplate failure. Then it is on to the next project, and on to more unknowns and more hopes and dreams.

Garrett Broshuis is a starting pitcher in the Giants' organization. E-mail him at gbroshuis@sportingnews.com.

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The marriage between the Giants and Norwich might come to an end after this season. The lease is up, and after several losing seasons, both parties are looking elsewhere for a new partnership.

I have so many memories of this place. I have learned so much, many times the hard way. The teams I have played on here have been less than marvelous, and I personally have had my share of ups and downs. For some reason, though, I've grown fond of this place -- tough love, I guess.

The place a ballplayer plays becomes a part of him. The routine and mundane proceedings of a ballplayer's day revolve around different pieces of the city and the field he inhabits. If one plays somewhere for a long time, an attachment naturally grows.

I've met a lot of great people at this place. From the ushers who have brought my wife to the suites when it rains, to the front-office staff who always have been ready to assist with almost any predicament, to the field crew who have manicured and sculpted our playing surface -- everyone has been great.

These are the people in the background of our baseball lives. They share in our experience and make the game possible. They work long and hard hours throughout the season, and we often fail to appreciate it, seldom outwardly expressing our gratitude.

I also have innumerable memories involving teammates in the clubhouse, and they flash through my mind in a blur. Most of the guys are no longer on this team. Some have moved up; others have gone home permanently. It is a revolving door with no permanence.

Saying goodbye to Norwich also means saying goodbye to five days a week of pizza or spaghetti and meatballs. Despite building a rancor toward those foods over the course of the season, I somehow find myself craving them in the offseason. It parallels my relationship with the stadium, I guess.

It also means goodbye to the numerous rivers and lakes in which I've fished and to all the trout I've caught. And goodbye to the great seafood only a short drive away. And, perhaps most important, goodbye to the local bowling alley, which provided us with entertainment almost every Sunday night for the past two years.

A handful of players and members of the front-office staff hung around after our last home game. The last of the season's kegs were tapped, and a Nerf football was thrown around. A few guys, including myself, found a few moments of solitude to wander around the stadium, most likely roaming it for the last time.

Toward the end of the night, I sat alone. The lights were on and the greenness of an empty field was on full display. The paths of the bases were muddled by the day's game, and I realized that this would go on without me. Moments would continue to take place in this field, but I would no longer be a part of them. I looked on in sadness.

Garrett Broshuis is a starting pitcher in the Giants' organization. E-mail him at gbroshuis@sportingnews.com.

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I've spent this year as a gypsy. I have wandered between homes and hotels, with people considerately taking me in as if I were their own son. They have been great to me.

Most players at this level (Class AA) live in apartments. This is in contrast to the lower levels of the minor leagues, where some teams, such as our Class A San Jose affiliate, rely almost entirely on host families. In Class AA, this is a rarer occurrence.

That said, there are a couple of families in Connecticut with a long history of hosting players. Their experiences date back to the days of the Yankees' farm club being based in Norwich (prior to 2003). They have continued taking in players even after the transition.

After living in apartments the past two years, I decided to give one of the host families a try. Finding and temporarily furnishing an apartment at the beginning of the year always requires a hectic, Herculean effort. By using a host family, I could avoid that exertion and save a little money.

I began the year living in the Wozniak household, in Colchester, Conn. Colchester is a beautiful small town, and the Wozniaks live in a nice house in the countryside, a short drive from the rambling Salmon River.

The Wozniaks had housed one of my teammates and good friends, Chris Begg, the past couple of years, and he recommended them. I took another player, Ronnie Ray, along with me, and we shared a basement and split gas money. We had all the food we could eat, lunches made fresh and a car to drive. It was a great situation.

About halfway through the year, Ronnie's wife came to visit for three weeks. At about the same time, my wife was scheduled to visit, and we suddenly faced a problem. We couldn't all share the basement together.

I scrambled for a solution. I thought about living out of the team hotel, but that would be expensive. I looked for alternatives. Luckily, my shortstop, Jake Wald, who was also living with a host family, had my back as usual. He talked to his host family about their additional spare room, and I packed my things and moved in with the Rothsteins.

The Rothsteins have hosted players as long as professional baseball has been played in Norwich, and they've had a number of experiences along the way. They have crammed their house with players over the years, once to the point that their son was sharing a bed with a player. In total, they have opened their doors to around 40 players.

Shortly after my move to the Rothsteins' home, Wald was promoted to Class AAA. When that happened, I made a claim on his area in the basement, where I have a voluminous space to roam and a big-screen TV all to myself. I'm without a car, but my teammates have been good about picking me up so far. I make it up to them.

It takes a special family to be a host family. Not all players are the most responsible or considerate individuals. Like parasites, they sometimes take without giving anything in return. Every segment of society has freeloaders, I guess.

For this reason, hosting players is not for everyone. With the right player, though, it can be a very rewarding experience. And it definitely is rewarding for the players because it makes our transient lives a whole lot easier to manage. For this, we thank all of you.

Garrett Broshuis is a starting pitcher in the Giants' organization. E-mail him at gbroshuis@sportingnews.com.

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"Why didn't I just throw an inside fastball? I should've recognized that better. It was so obvious. Am I ever going to learn?"

It's 2 a.m., and I'm rolling in my bed. A thousand questions are going through my mind. They are all questions that have no answers.

"The guy fouled off a couple of outside fastballs and a couple of sliders the other way. He was set up to come inside. Why didn't I execute this? Why did I have to be so stubborn?"

I know this process is no good for me. I do my best to try to leave the game at the field. Ruminating will only worsen things. It's part of my nature, though.

Before this night, it had been a few outings since my last loss. I was wrongly beginning to feel accustomed to the euphoria that a win delivers. I began to take it for granted. I forgot about the other feeling -- the feeling of defeat. I'm feeling it now.

It is possible that I hate losing more than I love winning. I'm not sure if this is normal among athletes, but I'm sure there are others like me. The thrill and rush of victory are blissfully strong, but the emotional punch of a loss is overwhelming.

My head aches and my eyes are slightly bloodshot. I replay every mistake in my head, over and over, over and over. A dagger is pushed deeper in my side.

I try to distract myself and forget about these things. I watch a mindless comedy and talk on the phone. But phone conversations are often no good. People, for some reason, feel compelled to talk about the game. At least my wife has learned to either listen in silence, or to talk about other things.

That's all I really want in such situations. I just want to hear about other things in my life. I want to hear about my wife's day at work, what my dog is doing and the funny things that my niece has done.

I need to know that life does not end when a baseball game is lost. I need to know that even though my family is away from me, they are still the most important part of my life.

Punishing oneself does no good, but it is such a natural occurrence. The events are remembered automatically and at random. Without warning, the game is in my head, holding my mind hostage, and I can't escape.

In the end, perhaps this process can be constructive. It is said that you learn more from a loss than from a victory. Perhaps the ruminative process can make you better, if it doesn't destroy you. It forces you to learn from your mistakes.

In this way, maybe you'll work harder on the days between starts. Your eyes will be tuned to improvement. You'll sharpen your skills in your next bullpen session. You'll learn from mistakes. And you'll beat off the shroud of defeat, and win your next game.

"Why didn't I just throw a two-seamer inside? I could've thrown ..."

Maybe the answers will come to me in my dreams. If only I could fall asleep.

Garrett Broshuis is a starting pitcher in the Giants' organization. E-mail him at gbroshuis@sportingnews.com.

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