Monday, October 04, 2004
Calling on Angels (and Trojans)
It's a good thing I'm in good health because we are entering a period of time in sports liable to give a man a heart attack. I'm so pumped, I've gone to red font!
After announcing their playoff presence with authority over the weekend, the Angels now draw the venomous Boston Red Sox in the American League Division Series, starting today at 1 p.m. in Anaheim. That's right, one o'clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday! I don't think the schedulers over at Major League Baseball read my little blog, but the timing would have me to believe otherwise. Remember on Friday when I was moaning about not being able to work with the pennant-clinching series on that night? Well, they've apparently seen my complaint and raised me six hours. I am feeling ill already. I don't know if I'm subconsciously inducing sickness so that I can go home sick in good conscience or if the playoff pressure is just manifesting physically, but my stomach feels like I just ate a 3-course meal courtesy of "Fear Factor." Honestly, what is MLB thinking? After 2,430 games of regular season buildup, they make the playoffs, the most exciting aspect of baseball, only available to the gainfully unemployed. That's just brilliant. Is this a vast, East Coast conspiracy to keep the thunderstick-slamming fans of Anaheim out of the stadium in Game 1? I doubt it, but it's fun to think so. I call on my fellow fans to take a stand and call in sick--hell, even quit your jobs if you have to, but get to Angel Stadium and bring the fury of Angel Nation with you. With Curt Schilling on the mound and Manny and Ortiz on either side of the plate, the team need will need every decibel of energy the fans can bring. Judging by my experiences at past Angels-Red Sox games, I have no doubt a large contingent of Red Sox fans will be there in droves, intent more on annoying the masses than cheering their team. I have confidence that the Angel playoff crowd will sufficiently drown them out. That's what Thundersticks are for and that's probably why Boston fans hate them so much.
Before the first pitch is even thrown, however, one thing is for certain, Vladimir Guerrero is the American League Most Valuable Player. Whether he wins the award or not, he just is. Not too long ago, Joe and I were discussing the MVP race and I had docked Vladdy a nudge of credit because I didn't believe at the time that he had come up with the clutch hits and RBIs the way the other candidates had. These last couple weeks, he took any lingering doubt and, with that Flinstonian bat he uses, clubbed it over the outfield wall of certainty. He's been the bedrock of the Angels offense since Opening Day and personally kept his team in the playoff chase throughout numerous injuries and turmoil. Not to mention his stats are superior to Gary Sheffield's who is believed to be his closest competitor. From whatever angle you look at it, the name on the trophy should be that of The Impaler.
This series is about more than simply moving on to the ALCS; it's also about a personal bet between two best friends now facing off as mortal enemies. Before each baseball season, Joe and I make a bet on something involving baseball with the loser buying the winner a steak dinner at season's end. Two years ago, Adam Dunn and Tony Clark netted me a delicious t-bone at Duke's when they failed to combine for 80 homeruns. Last year, Joe partook a porterhouse not long after the All-Star break when his Red Sox were clearly going to have a better record than my B-team, the Mets. As for this year's bet, the winner is yet to be decided. My Angels versus his Red Sox, whoever goes further for all the beef. As fate would have it, it all comes down to a head-to-head five-game series. It's not just the American League Division Series; it's The Steak Dinner Series! One week and three to five heart attacks from now, one of us will be gnawing on a New York style. I hope to Gene Autry it's me because I could sure use the protein.
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As if the Angels weren't putting enough strain on me, my mighty USC Trojans are now only five short days away from the one game that has stood out on the schedule perhaps even more so than the UCLA and Notre Dame, The Cal Game.
This Saturday's game, or Revenge Bowl I as I'm calling it, is about more than avenging the only blemish on last year's co-National Championship resume. It's about knocking little brother down a peg. Yeah, so he's been hitting the gym and practicing his fundamentals, and, okay, so he's made some dramatic improvement...But we're still bigger, we're still better, and our existence still paved the way and made his life a whole lot easier. It's time for the little rugrat to recognize. By some freak astrological anomaly, Little Bro actually beat us last year. Perhaps Saturn, the moon, and the dogstar were aligned to form a perfect isosceles triangle and Lil' Bro had a pregame seance to tap into its power, but however he did it, he beat us in front of all his little friends. Now we've got him on our field in front of our buddies threatening to beat him senseless should he pull anything funny again. It's time to remind him that no matter how hard he works and no matter how much he may improve, we're always gonna be Big Brother and we're always going to be better.
Get ready to ride the pain train, Cal. Your fluffy little fur's gonna be rolling on the Coliseum floor like tumbleweeds. After Saturday's game, Matt Leinart is gonna be wearing a bear-claw necklace for the rest of the season. Your moment of reckoning is nearly upon you.
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After announcing their playoff presence with authority over the weekend, the Angels now draw the venomous Boston Red Sox in the American League Division Series, starting today at 1 p.m. in Anaheim. That's right, one o'clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday! I don't think the schedulers over at Major League Baseball read my little blog, but the timing would have me to believe otherwise. Remember on Friday when I was moaning about not being able to work with the pennant-clinching series on that night? Well, they've apparently seen my complaint and raised me six hours. I am feeling ill already. I don't know if I'm subconsciously inducing sickness so that I can go home sick in good conscience or if the playoff pressure is just manifesting physically, but my stomach feels like I just ate a 3-course meal courtesy of "Fear Factor." Honestly, what is MLB thinking? After 2,430 games of regular season buildup, they make the playoffs, the most exciting aspect of baseball, only available to the gainfully unemployed. That's just brilliant. Is this a vast, East Coast conspiracy to keep the thunderstick-slamming fans of Anaheim out of the stadium in Game 1? I doubt it, but it's fun to think so. I call on my fellow fans to take a stand and call in sick--hell, even quit your jobs if you have to, but get to Angel Stadium and bring the fury of Angel Nation with you. With Curt Schilling on the mound and Manny and Ortiz on either side of the plate, the team need will need every decibel of energy the fans can bring. Judging by my experiences at past Angels-Red Sox games, I have no doubt a large contingent of Red Sox fans will be there in droves, intent more on annoying the masses than cheering their team. I have confidence that the Angel playoff crowd will sufficiently drown them out. That's what Thundersticks are for and that's probably why Boston fans hate them so much.
Before the first pitch is even thrown, however, one thing is for certain, Vladimir Guerrero is the American League Most Valuable Player. Whether he wins the award or not, he just is. Not too long ago, Joe and I were discussing the MVP race and I had docked Vladdy a nudge of credit because I didn't believe at the time that he had come up with the clutch hits and RBIs the way the other candidates had. These last couple weeks, he took any lingering doubt and, with that Flinstonian bat he uses, clubbed it over the outfield wall of certainty. He's been the bedrock of the Angels offense since Opening Day and personally kept his team in the playoff chase throughout numerous injuries and turmoil. Not to mention his stats are superior to Gary Sheffield's who is believed to be his closest competitor. From whatever angle you look at it, the name on the trophy should be that of The Impaler.
This series is about more than simply moving on to the ALCS; it's also about a personal bet between two best friends now facing off as mortal enemies. Before each baseball season, Joe and I make a bet on something involving baseball with the loser buying the winner a steak dinner at season's end. Two years ago, Adam Dunn and Tony Clark netted me a delicious t-bone at Duke's when they failed to combine for 80 homeruns. Last year, Joe partook a porterhouse not long after the All-Star break when his Red Sox were clearly going to have a better record than my B-team, the Mets. As for this year's bet, the winner is yet to be decided. My Angels versus his Red Sox, whoever goes further for all the beef. As fate would have it, it all comes down to a head-to-head five-game series. It's not just the American League Division Series; it's The Steak Dinner Series! One week and three to five heart attacks from now, one of us will be gnawing on a New York style. I hope to Gene Autry it's me because I could sure use the protein.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As if the Angels weren't putting enough strain on me, my mighty USC Trojans are now only five short days away from the one game that has stood out on the schedule perhaps even more so than the UCLA and Notre Dame, The Cal Game.
This Saturday's game, or Revenge Bowl I as I'm calling it, is about more than avenging the only blemish on last year's co-National Championship resume. It's about knocking little brother down a peg. Yeah, so he's been hitting the gym and practicing his fundamentals, and, okay, so he's made some dramatic improvement...But we're still bigger, we're still better, and our existence still paved the way and made his life a whole lot easier. It's time for the little rugrat to recognize. By some freak astrological anomaly, Little Bro actually beat us last year. Perhaps Saturn, the moon, and the dogstar were aligned to form a perfect isosceles triangle and Lil' Bro had a pregame seance to tap into its power, but however he did it, he beat us in front of all his little friends. Now we've got him on our field in front of our buddies threatening to beat him senseless should he pull anything funny again. It's time to remind him that no matter how hard he works and no matter how much he may improve, we're always gonna be Big Brother and we're always going to be better.
Get ready to ride the pain train, Cal. Your fluffy little fur's gonna be rolling on the Coliseum floor like tumbleweeds. After Saturday's game, Matt Leinart is gonna be wearing a bear-claw necklace for the rest of the season. Your moment of reckoning is nearly upon you.
# posted by j.h.k. @ 8:53 AM 
