In the year 2000, Barry Bonds had a chance to be a postseason hero. The Giants had tied the game with a three-run homer off cosmic rounding error Armando Benitez, but they stumbled over a baseball game someone left in the middle of the room. They were down by a run again. The tying run was on-base. The winning run was at the plate.

Bonds was up, and instead of being excited that the best hitter of his generation was up, the exact person out of six billion that you would pick first in a this-exact-moment fantasy draft, I was in the left field bleachers, feeling sick to my stomach.

He's gonna screw this up, and I'm going to have to hear about this forever.

He did screw it up.

There are still people in the YouTube comments today, arguing if the ball was inside or not. It was a rugged camera angle, so it's hard to tell. It didn't matter. He screwed it up, and the Giants and their fans had to hear about it for the next two years.

Barry Bonds was the best hitter on the planet, the argument would start.

But, the Internet would reply. What about the postseason?

Small samples and lack of teammate support makes it more noticeable, he's not a choker, you shut up.

But, the Internet would reply. What about the postseason?

There weren't a lot of productive debates. There were a lot of duck season/rabbit season debates, where the best chance to win came from pure misdirection and dishonesty. And the entire time, Barry Bonds really was the best hitter on the planet, asterisks or not. There was just no way to prove that he was the best hitter in the postseason, too, not without another chance at this mystical, teeny sample of high-stress, meaningful games.

Bonds got another chance, and he consumed the postseason whole, Galactus-like, consuming and wandering until he can consume again. He never really got the chance to keep consuming, but he proved, over 17 games, that he wasn't intimidated by the postseason. He wasn't devoured by pressure beetles every time he stepped into the box. He was still great, still a loaded cannon of great, ready to explode at aaaaaaaany second.

Which brings us to Clayton Kershaw. As a Giants fan, I should hate the guy. And I hate what he does, for sure. He's started 30 times against the Giants in his career, about the equivalent of a full season. He's thrown 227 1/3 innings against them, with a 1.54 career ERA. He is a living, pulsing Cy Young season that keeps growing and oozing after us, blob-like, as we futilely attempt to run away. He is awful. He is the best.

But, the Internet would reply. What about the postseason?

Oh, man, I don't know. Probably just one of those things, right? A few starts, scattered over a few years. Add in the extra doom of short rest, and the results don't have to mean anything. Like, maybe a smidgen of meaning. Here is your snifter of meaning, swirl it around, smell it, swish it around in your mouth and then spit it out. But he's still excellent. He was probably still a master of the pitching arts, regardless of results.

But, the Internet would reply. What about the postseason?

There. There was your postseason. In an elimination game, on short rest, on the road, there was a stunning game from one of the best pitchers alive. Probably the best pitcher alive, until further notice. There was your proof that the pressure beetles weren't feasting on his skull.

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As a Giants fan, I could have spun a happy reaction to eight earned runs in two innings. I could have reveled in it. There would have been tribal, Giants-related mirth. The thought kind of tickles me while I'm writing this. Don't mistake this for a confessional that describes how Kershaw lured me over to the dark side.

But even though my fan-blood oath requires me to root against Kershaw, there's also a draw to the side of logic. Of reason. Of good-gravy-shut-the-hell-up-you-dingus. Every time someone brought up the what about the postseason?, it reminded me of the similar travails of Bonds. And it bugged me. I wrote a defense of Kershaw in his darkest postseason hour, possibly because I was chunneling into my subconscious and defending Bonds at the same time.

On Tuesday night, against the Mets, Kershaw wasn't perfect. He left a couple balls up, strayed in the strike zone every so often and occasionally looked vulnerable.

That's the point, though. Every pitcher looks like that. Every pitcher gets away with it or occasionally doesn't. Hanging curveballs are fouled back to the screen, hanging curveballs are sent 400 feet over the right field fence and hanging curveballs are popped up to center. The excellent pitchers have far fewer lousy pitches, which is what makes them excellent in the first place, but they still happen. For whatever reason, Kershaw was a master of never getting away with anything in the postseason.

It might have been bad luck. It might not have been, though. It might have been a mental bur stuck in the fabric of the brain. After the Giants were eliminated in the 2000 NLDS, Bonds sought J.T. Snow out on the team plane home. From Andrew Baggarly's Giant Splash:

Barry sat there for more than two hours, and he totally opened up to me," Snow said. "He told me he can't sleep at night, he paces in his hotel room. He didn't know why he was struggling in the postseason, but he felt he had to carry the team."

Who knows what was going through Kershaw's head when he was continually unable to carry his team through the postseason? It's easy to suggest that the meatballs to Matt Adams or Matt Carpenter were bad pitches because every pitcher makes bad pitches, and they were a mix of bad luck and bad timing. It's also easy to suggest that Kershaw threw those awful pitches because he was consumed with doubt and dread. It was so easy for a fan to believe either one, which meant it was also easy to meet in the middle and fight about it.

In Game 4, he turned the page, then ripped the older pages out and swallowed them. He had one of the best starts for a pitcher on three day's rest since 2000. Don't dismiss the short rest. Pitching is physical talent and acumen, sure, but it's also calibration. Adjusting the routine is like throwing pennies onto spinning plates, and it's not always going to end well. Kershaw never let the Mets feel in control, though. There was never a meaningful rally. It wasn't his most dominant start, but it was definitely the Clayton Kershaw we're used to.

Good. Great. Now we can stop hearing about it every single time he pitches in the postseason and appreciate the best pitcher of his generation. If you think I bust out the Bonds comparisons often, that would be incorrect. There was a clear parallel, though. Best in the game gets a reputation. Best in the game levels up and buries the reputation alive. Now we can just watch the best in the game.

And hopefully I'm writing this same column about Greinke in a couple years because of his struggles in the postseason, starting with the four homers he gives up on Thursday night. Heck, I wouldn't really mind a "Was I wrong about Kershaw?" piece after the next six postseason missteps.

But for now, here's a Giants fan appreciating a Dodgers milestone because it was also a victory for how baseball should work. The greatest players in history shouldn't wither in front of us because they're trapped in their own heads. I don't want to believe that actually happens, and I don't want to hear from the people who do believe it. Kershaw didn't just save the Dodgers. He saved us from the awful takes and strong opinions.

Thank goodness for that. Your turn, David Price.

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SB Nation presents: All that's happened with the Dodgers during Vin Scully's tenure