After an improbable four-run ninth inning wiped away a miserable game of abject failure, the Angels won Saturday Night's game with the bashiest of heroics. Yes, bashiest is a word and it means the Angels bashed the ball and bashed the hearts of Boston fans.
Josh Hamilton hit an eleventh-inning walk off home run to smackdown the bearded body odor that calls itself the Red Sox. Carl Yazstremski is rolling over n his grave looking at this pseudohipster/quai-crustpunk crew and he is not even dead yet. The Angels climbed out of the sewer of defeat to triumph over baseball's sewer rats from the dreaded and overrated AL East.
After eight innings of terrible baseball the Angels put it all together and delivered - and in front of a stadium of sore-winner transplanted Boston blowhards who were forced to eat a plate of sun-don't-shine axewhooping with no one to turn to for comfort because they were 2,700 miles form their Southie Rat Holes.
Oh wow I had a mopey whiny editorial about the Angels that I wrote in the eighth inning but then... wow.
Mike Trout got named to the All Star team, hit a solo home run to give the Angels the lead and then, when they needed him most, grounded into an inning-ending double play. Um, there was more to watch, more to observe but it is like a morning fog when you feel like a cup of coffee and a donut early on a Sunday and you get up and get dressed and walk out the door and see the fog and just go right back to bed because nether the coffee nor the donut nor even the combination of both of them mean that much to you. That fog is slipping into the crevices of our collective apathy, gaps that are widening, filling in with a gaseous dust of ambivalence. The sport loses all meaning when the passion and hope of each and every fan are obscured by that mist of open-mouthed incoherence when the season is examined.
Jered Weaver pitches Sunday night. Until then, goodnight.