August the 20th, of the year two thousand and fifteen. I was walking through the balmy forest in Old Anaheim Cemetery, when I found a transistor device emanating a cheering, calamitous drone. I had been coming from the ARTIC station platform, home from a day's travels and business dealings, when the lure of the wooded, overgrown baseball diamond pulled me away from my impetus to be in my domicile. There I was, in the Old Anaheim cemetery and holding this mysterious radio screaming of the Angels, and the wearers of White Sox, and the sport I would learn the ancient ones called baseball.
I put the ghostly utterances of Mark Langston and one Terry Smith in my leather satchel and began once again on my way. The garish sport was still being administered in the so-called park upon my arrival at my chamber, so I dug in to see if there was anything to be gleaned from this mysterious brutality, and I can only describe it thusly:
A man, Nick Tropeano...a young pitcher of strong repute and will, hurling the white orb. There were sounds...a crack. One after another and the wearers of White Sox reached the bases without regard for the bounds of the Halos sanity. There were caterwauling attendees, hands clapping in hypnotized madness. The White Sox scored run after run on young Tropeano and he was vanquished early. The White Sox began to channel the Ancient Baseball Ones; booming voices and homers into the home team's territories, damning them to a terror so eldritch it makes my blood curdle just speaking it..........Zhro r'luh ah hafh'drn Albert Pujols syha'h nw czhro wgah'n goka 'ai vulgtlagln, ee Yoggoth nw hupadgh Hastur Tyler Saladino nafltharanak wgah'n shagg cgrah'n wgah'n, h'fm'latgh shtunggli y-fhtagn uln nafltharanak Chaugnar Faugn nilgh'ri Nick Tropeanokadishtu syha'h. Adam LaRoche Ph'chtenff Nyarlathotep 'ai shtunggli orr'e f'llll Chaugnar Jose Abreu Faugn nw f'hupadgh Yoggoth uaaahnyth, stell'bsna nw ph'nog ch' ooboshu shaggAdam Eaton nnnHastur Hastur hlirghor shogg, naflkadishtu R'lyeh Cthulhuog Carlos Sanchez single cee mgoth 'fhalma syha'h li'hee chtenff. Tharanak Mike Trout double syha'h Tsathoggua naflthrod phlegeth uln, Tsathoggua nnnNyarlathotep tharanak shtunggli vulgtm, syha'h ya h'grah'n hupadgh. Nilgh'ri grah'n geb ebunma ee 'bthnk ee Azathoth Dagon r'luh, Hasturnyth bug kn'a Cthulhu uaaah Dagon Hastur nan'ghft ngathg, ch' hrii shtunggli phlegeth y-mg Shub-Niggurath sgn'wahl wgah'n Mike Scioscia turn the page.
It was horrible, so, so horrible. I shut the transistor radio off and locked it in the hallway closet's crawl space. The Angels had lost the game by a score of 8-2, but it was told they still won the series. I still have memories of it, even though so much time has passed since those evil, poisonous summer night transmissions...a full 20 minutes, in fact. Plenty time to forget about the Ancient Baseball Ones, managers the size of mountains and a level of play that renders it's consumer stricken with crippling fear and a feeling of existential, galactic solitude. They shall play the Blue Jays, of the region the elder gods call Toronto, and the world would know their dark, incomprehensible baseball ways.