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Fly Your Flag

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One day, years ago, a monolithic corporation named Disney took ownership of my team, The California Angels.

This oligarchic beast conspired with podunk, part-time government agents to change the name and logo of my team, The California Angels.

Back then, I didn't have any power...

I didn't have a blog...

I didn't have a lawyer...

...and suddenly, I didn't even have a team!

I adjusted in silence, saddened by the loss.

There was nowhere to take the feelings bottled up inside.

Nobody cared about the team, nor their 50 televised games and Page 8 game recaps in the Times Sports section anyway. Disney sure didn't.

But I cared.

I didn't have any say so in any of these matters, but I did have skin and, soon thereafter, I had a solution to the wicked contractually-mandated civic disappearing of my team.

And ever since this solution dawned on me, that my skin was my own, nobody can take my California Angels away from me.

They are always with me.

In all of this I came to understand why I cannot cry for the We Are Not L.A. crowd:
They never cried for me.

They stood by silent while the geographic area representing 30 million people was erased in favor of one representing less than 300,000.

And for what, pride? Team pride?

No, corporate pride. It is a company town.

California is an international symbol of possibility.

Angels are a spiritual metaphor of the mysteries of the universe manifesting in our favor.

From the greatest poetic symbol of hope to the branding of a hotel lobby all in one poorly-written contract.

But not on my skin.