With Lincecum, the best is yet to come

SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. — Tim Lincecum entered the San Francisco Giants clubhouse the other day, only to find his locker blocked by 10 reporters and a camera surrounding Barry Zito. That's normal. Only a handful of lockers separate Lincecum from the Barry-and-Barry Show.

Lincecum changes adjacent to that circus, parked in the same corner of the clubhouse that houses Zito and Barry Bonds. And still, the best pitcher in Washington baseball history is fairly ballyhooed himself.

He's aiming for a low profile. Good luck, kid. When you're 5-foot-11 (listed at 6 feet because he asked), throw upward of 101 mph, toss a curveball that breaks so far surfers would like to ride it, and go 10th overall in the draft, people tend to notice.

"It's crazy even being in their presence," Lincecum says. "I hope that never happens to me. I wouldn't want that many people in my face."

No need to worry about Lincecum fitting in, though. That was evident on the day San Francisco held "Giants Idol," a baseball take on the popular singing reality TV show.

Giants veterans required one song from each new invite to big league camp. Lincecum donned a charcoal gray suit and a fedora, a smoke dangling from his mouth, and belted out "Fly Me to the Moon" by Frank Sinatra. He mumbled through the second verse and froze "like an idiot" — his words — during a 20-second instrumental.

"He didn't sing," pitching coach Dave Righetti says. "It was horrible."

Lincecum made an equal — and opposite — impression Sunday against the team he grew up watching. He breezed through three innings against the Mariners, allowing two hits and striking out four, while teammates returned to the dugout just to watch him pitch.

The Giants are considering Lincecum for a spot in their rotation, but more than likely he will start the season in Class AAA. Lincecum says it's "nice" to even be considered. Righetti says that "if his progression continues, it's just a matter of time."

You have to look hard to find the star-in-the-making in the Giants clubhouse Sunday morning. The team official points down the corridor and says, "find the player who looks like the batboy." He's sitting at his locker, hat turned sideways.

"Timmy, your hat is crooked," Noah Lowry says from a nearby locker. Lincecum promptly turns it straight.

Teammates ride Lincecum constantly. They read a recent article that that compared him to Bob Feller and Sandy Koufax — Hall of Famers with similar full-windup, long-stride throwing motions — and took to calling him "Koufax" and "Sandy" and "Feller," along with "Franchise." Asked about rookie hazing, Lincecum laughs and declines to comment.

"Everybody keeps comparing him," Righetti says. "The worst part as a young guy — and I was one of them guys — is then people start thinking they have to be as good as the people they're comparing them to."

To his credit, Lincecum isn't letting hype reach head. His only splurge from a $2.1 million signing bonus was a 2007 Chevy Tahoe complete with 24-inch rims that would be comfortable in any hip hop video.

He invested the rest of the money, which means his dad kept his day job for now and stayed back home. Chris Lincecum has been teaching his son pitching mechanics since Tim was tiny. They talk every day by phone now, their connection almost telepathic.

The son tells his father where the ball went that day. The father tells his son why it went there, without ever having seen it.

Tim called his dad after his first spring training outing, in which he allowed three runs in the first inning before settling down and cruising through the second. He talked of hitting 97 mph on the radar gun seven different times.

"Really?" his dad quipped. "Are those the ones they hit?"

Tim Lincecum is going through all kinds of adjustments this spring training. He's adjusting to big-league hitters. He's adjusting to the media circus and his own media demands. And, since he's a National League pitcher, he's adjusting to stepping into a batter's box without looking downright silly.

The last time Lincecum swung a bat was against Cedarcrest in high school (he went to Liberty in Renton). He hurt his back, and "they never let me touch a bat again." In his first foray this spring, Lincecum struck out.

He misses the college life, misses family, misses his friends and teammates from the UW. He knows the university put a giant jersey with his old No. 14 (he wears 55 now) on the wall in right field, acknowledgement of the Golden Spikes Award he won last season underneath.

"People always talk about the motion," Lowry says. "Whatever. He's got great stuff, a ton of raw talent. I wouldn't want to step in the box against him."

Lowry pauses, a smile spreading across his face. Tim Lincecum can do anything, Lowry says, except for one thing. Sing.

Greg Bishop: 206-464-3191 or gbishop@seattletimes.com