Enjoy it while we have it folks, it is going to be a bumpy September.
The Angels have the 2nd best starting pitching in the American League, competent and even on occasion exceptional defense, below middle of the pack hitting with all the power of Kansas City, a little more speed than half the teams and an average bullpen.
With the 3rd highest payroll in baseball, we don't have an inspiring story to rally fans outside of Southern California...
(The Angels - Better Billboards!)
In the clubhouse, there are no signs of the infectious chemistry of the 2002 squad.
On the field, signs of an uninspired prozac flatness are everywhere. It is Steve Finley collecting a paycheck that truly inspires this group.
In the front office, we guard the future like it is gold and treat the roster like it is fine interlocking crystal that cannot be altered.
In the dugout, there is no philosophy of batting order or player selection amongst the manager and his coaching staff, where you wonder if any one of them even knows how to use e-mail, let alone study statistical analysis of players.
The organization possesses a minor league announcing crew comprised of a narcissist speed-talking digressor, an ex-jock with every stereotype that conveys, Manny Mota's intelligent son and two radio hicks from the sticks.
The stadium has cold, overpriced food served by Inland Empire halfway-house thugs to drunks and families who annoy anyone with any passion for baseball by their incapacity to be involved in the games themselves for ten seconds, but sure do love the jumbotron commercials in between innings.
At least they got rid of Mo Vaughn and the ugly old uniform...