One game out of 162 doesn’t mean much. It’s a little more than one-half of one percent of the season.

But first impressions still mean something.

And the San Francisco Giants didn’t just make a bad first impression on Wednesday; they walked into the room, tripped over the rug, and spilled red wine all over the host’s white sofa.

They spent an entire winter promising a makeover — serious changes — only to show up looking like the same old mess.

And the only consolation was that it was just one game.

I blitzed home on the ferry after the first inning — fleeing the Netflix of it all — and settled in with the kids. By the time the Yankees were up seven, my 3-year-old turned to me and asked, with the kind of devastating earnestness only a preschooler can muster:

“Daddy, what does this team do?”

All of my reader emails should be so pointed. Heck, all of my columns should be, too.

The Giants spent last season forcing us to ask that question every night. They were the human equivalent of a beige wall — sometimes functional, occasionally offensive (in both regards), but mostly just *there*.

On Wednesday, they were anything but forgettable.

Logan Webb didn’t have it. That happens. Even the best chefs burn a dish once in a while.

But the Giants’ loss was hardly as simple as an ace having a bad day at the office.

The defense didn’t just stink; it lingered.

We saw limited range that made the infield look like it was playing in the mud despite it being a cloudless (well, sort of) day, fundamentals so loose they belonged in a Sunday morning beer league, and a throwing error for good measure that served as the garnish on a garbage tray.

The Yankees scored seven runs without hitting a single home run. In the modern era, that’s basically a magic trick.

And how many times did a Giants throw hit a Yankees runner?

Wasn’t the defense supposed to be the “new and improved” calling card of this regime? How many times did I hear the orange-colored glasses wearers claim that the great Ron Washington was going to fix all that ailed the Giants in the field?

Yes, it’s just one game, but Wednesday looked like the same old return-to-sender defense.

Then there was the offense.

We were sold a vision of a contact-driven squad — a team that was going to get ’em on, get ’em over, and get ’em in. Modern validity of that scheme aside, we sure didn’t see it in Game 1.

Going 0-for-5 with runners in scoring position and 0-for-3 with two outs isn’t just bad luck; it’s a lifestyle.

Max Fried is an ace, sure — and perhaps the fact that he only had four strikeouts is a point for the Giants. But there were a whole lot of off-balance swings, and the Giants acted as if they’d never seen a left-handed off-speed pitch before.

Last season, the Giants’ middle-of-the-order right-handed hitters couldn’t hit lefties — the kind of pitchers on which they are supposed to feast. Willy Adames hit .201 with a .705 OPS vs. southpaws. Matt Chapman wasn’t any better — .224 with a .679 OPS.

And they went 0-for-7 on Wednesday.

Maybe that’s why the Giants have a bizarrely-built bench of entirely right-handed hitters — to spell the righties they’re starting day-in, day-out.

Or perhaps the team was shellshocked by the Netflix spectacle that delayed the game 20-something minutes and choked the field with fireworks smoke. Apparently, nobody told the fine folks at the streaming giant that the wind blows toward right field at Oracle Park. It’s not like it’s the most well-known meteorological fact in professional sports or anything.

Watching the Giants wander through smog for nine innings did feel like a good metaphor, though.

It’s just one game.

The sun will come up, the fog will roll in, and there are 161 more opportunities to prove that Wednesday was a fluke.

But if the 3-year-olds are already identifying the identity crisis, then saying the start was inauspicious is an understatement.

The hitting stunk, the fielding flopped, and the “new” Giants sure did a great job of reminding us all of what we didn’t like last season.