By the 9th inning of this soulless, decaying corpse of a baseball game, I came to the realization that the Angels are an abyss, and we are it's lonely inhabitants. It is a Friday night, and the team is trying to bring us down, make us bow to their whims, no matter the flailing or the failure they're dishing out. They are a crisp, grotesque husk of a baseball team that was left behind when it was molted by the prior perennial division winners.
Eight games in a row will do that to you; it will have the effect of a Mack truck brain scrape. Eight games. That's the most losses in a row since 1999, and the deepest, most losing valley that Scioscia has had to traverse in his tenure as Angels manager. Unbelievable.
Another blowout, another night of commiserating, another night of endless palms to the face or feeble appeasement to the baseball gods.
Eight games in a row, a true season in hell, with many more to go and against some non-pushover clubs; the potential is all there for new lows.
It's Friday, and the Angels are an August bummer, but there is still plenty of time to salvage the night; to claim my life back from their pine tar clutches, and to try to efface any record of the last eight games from my memory. It's a futile chore, but it's how we get by in dark Angels times.