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So close, yet so far: Angels rally but fall short to Yankees 8-7

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Jered Weaver gave up three home runs, and put the Angels in a 7-1 hole. They would rally back in the ninth but it would prove too little too late.

Rich Schultz/Getty Images

Angels 7  Yankees 8

With a day’s rest, and a new time zone on their iPhones, the Angels hurried into Yankee Stadium on the hopes that they’d a find a safe, comfy life of luxury and runs galore; like a young, naive Joe Buck, they would only find harsh realities and an unforgiving short porch, and the Ratso Rizzo to lead them on this tour through New York’s blind spots and dead ends was our very own Jered Weaver. This game proved to be a nightmare from early on, and as the players retreated to the dugout to put their minds to rest and at ease and escape the game they just endured, it will be filled instead with visions of triples in the alley and long flys into right field. And many runs.

In five starts in the new Yankee Stadium, Jered Weaver has an 8.17 ERA, and has given up 10 HRs. He had been a consummate vet in his previous five starts before this forgettable outing, and tonight played a big role in making those numbers the atrocity that they are. Stephen Drew had two home runs on the night off of Weaver, and Mark Teixeira got a trademark Cheap-O Homer as well. That infamous short porch, the likes of which make it a glorified whiffleball field; white spheres sailing into fields of dated haircuts and anachronistic Jordache acid washed jeans. Weaver finished 5 ⅔ innings and gave up nine hits, seven earned runs and two Ks. The bullpen bolstered the bad vibes, as Edgar Ibarra came in and added to the tally in the seventh.

The fans would scream and they would taunt, the Halos hanging their heads on an empty performance and gutless hitting, like Erick Aybar, bases loaded and two outs in the sixth, going down swinging at a ball in the brown Bronx dirt. The Angels managed to get on the scoreboard only from a Kirk Nieuwenhuis groundout. It would, in the end, be just enough of a tease of the big city glory that could be if they could only get their shot; they’ll wake up in the  morning, dazed still, and realize they had gotten their shot, and they blew it. Jered Weaver’s head is in a shower somewhere, facing down at the drain, and he begins to envision it’s gaping curves as a metallic, right field short porch, and the bubbles of soapy remnants look like baseballs, but they always explode before going out.

The Angels would actually find some moxie, and make a nice rally in the ninth, that also doubled as a literal comedy of errors on the part of the Yankees. The Angels at one point had bases loaded and no outs, and from there they managed to rack the score from 8-1 to 8-7, but it all ended on a Carlos Perez strikeout. They made a valiant attempt to salvage a nightmare, but it ended up being nothing more than a squirrel looking proudly at it’s hoarded acorns, as the meteor, out of frame, comes barreling towards it’s home. Tomorrow is another day in the city, another baseball game and a short porch away from another dip into calamitous fandom.