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Adam Rubin does these fantastic, detailed reports on the teams we play, and he came through again for this weekend. Click on it here if you want to get straight to the inside scoop on Alberto Callaspo, Peter Bourjos and Mark Trumbo. Me, I prefer to be surprised when we see an opponent the Mets haven’t played in three years.
I chose the Angels to KTE for sentimental reasons. The Angels are my favorite American League team, though I guess I should be more specific. The 2002 Anaheim Angels are my favorite American League team ever, and that happened pretty late in the game. I haven’t really remained up to speed with my affection in franchise terms since it stopped being 2002 and they stopped being the Anaheim Angels, but I’ll always look at them in whatever guise, whatever year and see October 2002, the month they became my Angels.
They came back on the MFYs after losing Game One of the ALDS despite being informed that down 1-0, you can’t possibly win as the visitor at MFYS II. With the series tied at one, and lineups being announced for Game Three, Mrs. Fafif warmed my heart no end when she asked, “You know why I hate the Yankees?” It doesn’t matter what the reason was. It was that she volunteered true MFY hatred from the perspective of someone who’d been mostly along for the ride in terms of baseball hostility. We’d been married almost eleven years at that point, but it was like I was on my honeymoon all over again.
The Angels pound the MFYs silly in Game Three. We meet the ThunderStix. We meet the Rally Monkey. We love it all. And then, Game Four, our reigning cat Bernie meets our kitten Hozzie. Following the wisdom that you don’t spring a new pet on an old pet, we had been harboring young Hozzie in the bathroom for close to two weeks. Game Four, a Saturday, we let them interact. And little Hozzie was all over big Bernie like Hop on Pop. Bernie let him (for a while, anyway). Success! And together, the four of us watched our beautiful Angels eliminate the hated (universally) MFYs in four games.
Next came the Twins, whom I had nothing against, and even had something for when Rick Reed was pitching, but the Angels were on an offensive high and could not be stopped. Adam Kennedy hit three home runs in the clincher. I was head over heels for Adam Kennedy. And David Eckstein. And Garret Anderson. And Troy Glaus. And Darrin Erstad. And Tim Salmon. And Chone Figgins. And young Francisco “K-Rod” Rodriguez. And so on (ex-Mets on the 2002 postseason Angels: Kevin Appier, Alex Ochoa; future Mets: Scott Schoeneweis, K-Rod). I was so psyched that the Angels won their pennant at last. I wanted them to win it in ’86, but not that much and not to the point where I was paying much attention. Now I was all over the Angels, the team that had waited long enough.
I watch the first two games of the World Series from Atlanta, where I’m isolated from my wife and kitties on business. I’m alone in my hotel room when the teams are introduced at Angels Stadium. The Angels come out to Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit In The Sky”. Four months earlier, our cat Casey — the cat Hozzie was succeeding as Bernie’s companion — died and I took to playing this song as a way of remembering him. Now the Angels were. The Angels were, to my cat-missing mind, Casey’s team (Casey was angelic in life, only more so afterwards). Now it wouldn’t merely be nice if the Angels could win the World Series. Now it would be imperative.
It was all the Angels vs. one Giant the first couple of games. The one Giant, Bonds, held his own (technically he had help), but this was a team effort for my favorite American League team ever. They split two. I flew home for Game Three. Mrs. Fafif had raided the Pathmark stuffed animal department. Greeting me in the living room when I arrived home were five rally monkeys. Not officially licensed merchandise, but just as motivational. Bought with love and World Series fever. (No ThunderStix, however.) The monkeys surrounded our TV for the duration. So did we. Too bad the Angels fell behind 3-2.
Exciting Series. No ratings. Nobody I knew was watching. Angels? Giants? Who cared? My, I said, what you’re missing. You’re missing, in Game Six, a comeback almost (almost) as dramatic as anything we saw in 1986. Dusty Baker tells Russ Ortiz — not to be confused with Ramon Ortiz, though I constantly did — to keep the ball when he takes him out in the seventh with an enormous lead and my finely tuned Angel senses told me we (we!) were coming back. And so we did. Scott Spiezio with the big hit, back when I didn’t know how much I would hate Scott Spiezio come 2006. The Angels weren’t dead. The Orange County version of me, whoever he was, wasn’t dead. He had hope. I rooted for the Angels for the cats, for the monkeys, for the missus and for that Southern California version of me who I really wanted to get something out of his unrewarded life.
And he got it. Rookie John Lackey starts. Troy Percival finishes. The Angels are champs. I may never have been happier from any October that didn’t involve Mets triumph. I loved the MFY elimination aspect of it — oh, how beautiful that they were taken out so early — but my Angels transcended mere anti-rooting. I didn’t fall for the ’95 Mariners or the ’97 Indians for winning MFY ALDSes. This felt singular. This was my American League team. I ordered Mrs. Fafif a World Champions shirt. She even wore it several times.
I never really cared on a going basis after that. I said I did, but I didn’t. When we didn’t get my longtime Expos crush Vladimir Guerrero, I was glad they did, but it didn’t move the needle all that much. I didn’t mind that the Red Sox beat them in 2004 because I wanted the Red Sox to finally get what the Angels had. I didn’t mind when the White Sox beat them in 2005 for the same reason. Yet though I rooted hard for those teams to win their moments, I never felt those clubs were my Red Sox or my White Sox. The 2002 Angels, however, remain my Angels.
Attrition and transformation eventually did its thing. Individual 2002 Angels took wing and landed elsewhere. Down the road one of them, that unhittable kid K-Rod, landed here. I cringed because I knew he would have his problems and I didn’t want to be disgusted by him the way I've been by every closer who came after Randy Myers. I wanted to remember October 2002. I looked up after K-Rod left, then Lackey and Figgins, and not so suddenly there were no more 2002 Angels on the Angels. They were just another American League team.
Schoeneweis didn’t exactly work out here, either.
Especially when they played the Mets. I felt that way in 2008 as Willie Randolph was called to Omar Minaya’s room; “I know it’s late, but I gotta talk to ya about somethin’ before ya turn in, know what I mean, Willie?” I felt that way in 2005 as Marlon Anderson chugged home and Cliff Floyd blasted his way home an inning later. Most importantly, I felt that way in 2003, when my residual joy over October 2002 dried up the following June as baby Jose Reyes and boring Steve Trachsel gave the Angels what-for in Anaheim. I was so, so down on the Mets in 2003 and I had been so, so up on the Angels in 2002, yet they were just another Met opponent I wanted the Mets to beat. That I found reassuring.
Last time I noticed anything about the Angels, Kendry Morales was injuring himself at home plate without encountering the other team’s catcher. Gads, that was stupid. He’s not back. Whoever’s there, however, is fully accounted for by the dependable Adam Rubin; click here for real preview information.
Pitching matchups:
Tonight (when I’ll be dodging thunderbolts on the Pepsi Porch and/or seeking Caesars shelter with Mrs. Fafif), Capuano vs. Piñeiro in a battle of pitchers whose names end in “o”. Piñeiro was — malapropism alert! — one of many who singlehandedly cost us the 2007 division title with his annoying, what do you call it...oh yeah, pitching. Piñeiro beat us a couple of times as a Cardinal and it always felt like the end of the world. In ’07 it was. We beat him, too, but who remembers stuff that detracts from a dependable narrative? He’s not that great right now. Capuano has been phenomenal. But that’s what makes it a horse race or, perhaps, a ballgame.
Tomorrow, Pelfrey vs. Haren in a battle of a really, really good pitcher vs. Mike Pelfrey. Haren’s WHIP this year is 0.98, which sources tell me is outstanding. Yet he’s only 6-4. The Angels are only 33-37 (yet just 3 games out in the A.L. West). In his last three losses, the LAAs have scored only one run for him each time. (OMG, it’s like I just did research for this.)
Sunday, Niese vs. Chatwood in a battle of young guns. Niese isn’t really that young anymore (the 48-year-old says of the 25-year-old); he just seems really young because a) he pitched in three different seasons when he was officially considered a rookie and b) as you may have heard 1,327 times since he was called up, Niese was born the day the Mets won their last World Series, and that couldn’t have been all that long ago (could it?). Niese, BTW, turned 16 the day the Angels won their last World Series. I wonder if the Angel announcers will mention that. As for Chatwood, he’s like 14, which is my default age for any young adult who looks too young to be an adult (“Josh Thole is like 14.”). He’s actually 21, the second-youngest player to have played in the American League this year The youngest is Jose Iglesias of the Red Sox, born January 6, 1990. I guess it should floor me that somebody born in 1990 is a major leaguer. It doesn’t. Time marches on, the fucker. Now that I’m looking it up, I see there have been four National Leaguers born in the 1990s this year, including one, Julio Teheran, who pitched twice for the Braves (fuck them) in May, who was born the day the Giants won their second Super Bowl. (I don’t know if he came out wide right.) Perhaps if Julio Teheran changes sports, that will become a Niese-like saturation fact. Also, Teheran was born in Colombia, not Iran. Go figure. As for Chatwood, he’s been getting his ass kicked lately, not by older kids but by the Royals. They knocked him out in the fourth inning in last start. Kansas City’s Eric Hosmer is the third-youngest American League player of 2011; Hozzie is short for Hosmer. Ruben Tejada is the sixth-youngest National Leaguer.
Batting statistics for Angels starters:
Piñeiro: .105/.162/.142 (1 stolen base; if he gets on, Caps will pick him off)
Haren: .226/.249/.331 (2 homers; Pelfrey will give up his third)
Chatwood: Never Batted in the big leagues. I’ll be damned if he’s gonna get his first hit against us.
The designated hitter of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim is Bobby Abreu. Ex-Phillie. Ex-MFY. BOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Useless motherfucker this weekend, we hope.
Vernon Wells is expensive. Torii Hunter’s always gotten on my nerves for some reason. The Angels carry three catchers. Seems like they always have. Howie Kendrick may be the last Angel I feel any affinity for, but not that much. Jered Weaver is having a banner season, but won’t face us. I hated his brother and will continue to as the need arises. Jered Weaver is in a SoBe commercial in which cool kids recognize him. I doubt the SoBe demographic is that attuned to Jered Weaver. Fuck Jeff Weaver for 2006. Fuck David Eckstein for 2006. And Spiezio. They lost their Angel wings when they became a pain in our playoff ass. Fuck Joel Piñeiro for 2007. Fuck Yadier Molina. Fuck Chipper. And Fredi Gonzalez. Wow, do I hate him.
Mike Scioscia, as long as we’re in that realm, manages the Angels. Strangely I went the entire 2002 postseason without once associating Scioscia with the failures of 1988 (or as Scioscia would have called them, the successes of 1988). I can’t look at Kirk Gibson without getting riled up, however. Maybe Scioscia carries three catchers because he was a catcher.
Ex-Mets who have their wings: Hisanori Takahashi. I thought I’d miss him. I don’t. Maybe last night I should have. Scott Kazmir is at liberty. The Angels had a reliever up for a while named Francisco Rodriguez — another Francisco Rodriguez. History did not repeat itself.
Ex-Angels who line our skies: Terry Collins, a-hole manager from 1997 to 1999, now a sure, steady Leader of Men. I saw the lineup last night, with Hairston in center, and thought “I trust Terry.” Didn’t see that coming. And Hairston delivered. We have the original Francisco Rodriguez. I cringed last night, oh boy.
Also, we have Angel Pagan, but he’s a current Angel.
The Mets and Angels first played in any form on April 5, 1968. The Mets were going to open the season in San Francisco, so they scheduled some exhibitions out west. The two expansion cousins drew 5,057 fans to then Anaheim Stadium. It was the day after Martin Luther King, Jr., was shot. I wouldn’t have been rushing to an exhibition baseball game.
Arte Moreno has better PR than any owner in baseball though that one World Series was won under Disney Inc. Still, you gotta love stories like this one bmfc1 turned us onto recently, in which some dude winds up by accident in the owner’s box at Angels Stadium and instead of making like the Mets and tossing him, handcuffed, into a holding cell and charging a convenience fee on top of it, they treat him like an honored guest. And instead of casting a shadow of gloom by telling a famous reporter from a famous magazine how much his team sucks, Moreno seems to enjoy what he owns and hasn’t managed to put his ownership in jeopardy. One of those who works the owner’s suite is a man whose last name is Beverage.
And that is what our cat Hozzie, now nine, is named for: Hosmer Mountain Beverages of Willimantic, Conn. Hozzie, however, isn’t much of an Angels or beverage fan. He likes naps.
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