By LP Hastings
By Michael Goldstein
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Matt Coker
By Nick Schou
By Bethania Palma Markus
The Angels will be contending for the pennant this year, and to a generation of coming-of-age baseball fans, that seems as natural as the fact that the Dodgers won't.
Turns out the World Series title of 2002 really did kill the so-called curse that so cruelly haunted the Angels throughout their first 40 years, even if some remnants occasionally still give a disturbing twitch . . . most recently when the city of Anaheim blew millions of dollars and immeasurable goodwill by futilely suing a team that has won the last two West Division titles just for diddling a little with its name. How weird was that?
Anyway, the upshot is there are kids well into their teens who are unable to relate to the overwhelming preponderance of their favorite team's history. Someone says "Angels," and they think "good team." How weird is that?
Until the Angels unexpectedly rally-monkeyed the San Francisco Giants in the 2002 Series, their tradition was a horror story—some chapters tearjerkingly tragic, others Three Stooges-style comic. They created constant athletic fiasco out of murder, suicide, paralysis, partial blindness, blood disorders, concealed weapons, bean balls, a pitcher breaking his hand while celebrating a division-clinching win, a staph infection, a bus crash, a crack bust, a phenomenal rookie second baseman taking a screaming line drive into his fresh young face and a just-signed, big-money, superstar first baseman severely spraining his ankle in the first inning of his very first game. Meanwhile, an old, rich and kindly singing cowboy played and paid on.
But blissful amnesia—and three playoff appearances in four years—has enabled Angels fans to reinvent themselves into sporting dynasts, replete with an array of instantly entrenched customs. They show up at Anaheim Stadium dressed in red, thwack their Thundersticks, cackle at their Rally Monkey and otherwise await, in the catch phrase of their radio announcer Rory Markus, "just another Halo victory," as though all of this has been their habit from birth. That may be Angel history's weirdest twist of all.
Okay, maybe the second weirdest.
Nothing will ever out-strange what happened to the Angels 20 years ago, when a team of last-gasp superstars, offbeat castoffs and flash-in-the-pan newcomers charged to within one strike of reaching the World Series . . . and then, in a life-draining instant, found themselves another 16 years away.
The 1986 season in general, and Game 5 of the American League Championship Series in particular, summarized and epitomized what it meant to be an Angels fan during the team's first 26 years of existence. Maybe you've heard of it. You'd have to be, oh, 30 years old to remember it. That's how old I was when I experienced it.
On Sunday, Oct. 12, 1986, I was in the Anaheim Stadium press box, a sports reporter completing my second year of covering the Angels, the team I had grown up loving, for the Long Beach Press-Telegram, the newspaper I had grown up reading. As it happened, there were a few other reporters like me on the beat that year, homegrown boys-to-men who had always gravitated toward Southern California's "other" big-league baseball team for who-knows-what reasons.
Me? I lived in Los Angeles County. Most of my friends were Dodgers fans, glorying in their team's tradition and success and, when they weren't ridiculing my daily dying with every Angels pratfall and failure, wondering what possessed me to choose this life of constant pain.
I don't know if I did choose the Angels, exactly, so much as I identified with them. Maybe they were a kind of metaphor for a kid who wrapped his earnest idealism in a dark doomsday complex, who believed he was a good person and knew he had good intentions but sensed that wasn't going to count for enough—who feared that somehow, inexplicably, he was destined to fail in the most humiliating possible manner. Yeah, I was a barrel of laughs.
* * *
Yet when the Angels—represented by Hall of Famers like Reggie Jackson and Don Sutton, space cases like Ruppert Jones and Rob Wilfong, debutantes like Gary Pettis and Dick Schofield—took a three-games-to-one lead over the Boston Red Sox in the best-of-seven playoff series while twice beating Roger Clemens during his first Cy Young Award-winning season, I dared to hope.
And when the Angels entered the ninth inning of Game 5 leading 5-2—three outs from the World Series—and their best pitcher, homegrown Mike Witt from Servite High, painting a masterpiece, I dared to believe.
At least one person in the stadium wasn't so gullible, though. Peter Schmuck, the reporter for TheOrange County Register, came over and intoned, public-address-announcer-style, into my ear: "Ladies and gentlemen . . .please prepare yourselves . . . for the biggest disappointment . . . of your lives."
Everybody else stopped laughing too. It was as though more than 60,000 perfectly practical people were simultaneously sensing the presence of a horrible power much greater than themselves—that the Angels Curse might be more than a series of unfortunate coincidences or cheap excuses for poor management and bad ballplayers by people unable to accept pain and failure at face value. Maybe some pernicious fallen spirit really had adopted the team as a pet project to earn extra credit in hell.
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