Tagged: Los Angeles

Me To Angels: “Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

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Let me state right up front that I’m not wild about the Angels. Why?
* Their manager whines a lot.
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* The name “Scioscia” is too hard to spell with any consistency and leaves me puzzled.
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* The team is forever associated with “small ball,” as if they invented the hit-and-run, the bunt and the stolen base. In reality, it’s just that they have some smallish players.
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* Mostly, it’s because they’ve beaten the Yankees over and over, always making us look like dead people.
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But not tonight. This time the Yanks were the 7-4 victors, and laughter rang out all over the Empire.
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AJ was shaky out of the gate, giving up a triple to Figgy (not to be confused with the fruit) and a solo shot to Napoli (not to be confused with the city of Naples or the Italian dessert beloved by Phil Rizzuto). Then he got it together and shut down the red-shirted ones.
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(There’s so much red when we play the Angels that my eyes burn.)
What I especially loved about this game was the Yankees’ offense. For the third night in a row, we kept battling back. Down 3-2 in the fourth, Jeter came up with one of his clutch, inside-out singles to right.
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Bobby Abreu, whose RBIs I miss but whose immobility in right field I don’t, bobbled the ball, allowing Swisher and Pena to score and put the Yankees ahead.
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But it was in the eighth when we really spanked the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.
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Cano lined one to right that Abreu might have caught if he’d actually bent over. Posada’s ground-rule double came next, followed by Swisher’s intentional walk (good one, Soscia or Sosha or whatever it is), followed by Melky’s single.
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(Poor Gardner. He’s so screwed right now.)
When Pena’s double scored Posada and Swisher, that was it for the Halos. Coke and Mo finished them off and that was that. We beat them. We pitched well and Posada nailed a couple of base runners and the hits came in bunches.
But, of course, it was the Magic Pen that was ultimately responsible for the Yankees’ latest reversal of fortune. I rewarded it after the game by showering it with diamond rings and nestling it in Yankees satin. Nothing’s too good for the Magic Pen at this point. Nothing.
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A Pitcher Scorned

It happens all the time when it comes to romance. Love is found, love is lost and somebody ends up with a broken heart.

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Is that the case with Andy Pettitte? Is his passionate affair with the Yankees over forever? Are they just not that into him anymore? He’s hurt and confused, and who can blame him?
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Sure, he’s trying to explore new love with the Dodgers, but it’s an act, trust me. Right now he’s sitting in a BarcaLounger in the den of his ranch and he’s asking, “Why, y’all? How did it go wrong? Things used to be so good with us.”
And they were. Never mind the relationship with Clemens. There were other bonds.
He and Wang were tight, breaking through the language barrier with a language of their own.
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He and Jeter needed no words either, whether in times of laughter or tears.
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And then there was all the hugging with Jorge
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and the cuddling with A-Rod.
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Andy’s wife Laura tried to corral her husband’s attention, even showing up in leopard-print outfits on occasion.
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But how do you compete with the blissful moments Andy shared with his pinstriped teammates? I mean, he not only played baseball with them. He played dress up with them.
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“Why?” he cries out into the dead of the Texas night. “I was fixin’ to take your darn pay cut, but you haven’t called. Not a ‘Hello.’ Not a ‘We miss you.’ Nothin’.”
And so Andy Pettitte, the pitcher scorned, has reached out to Joe Torre for comfort. If the Yankees don’t re-sign the lefty, perhaps he’ll make a fresh start in Los Angeles. A new town. New faces. It could work.
But it will take an attachment to
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and
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and
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and there are no guarantees that they’ll fill the void. After all, first love is the hardest to get over.
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Just ask Bernie.
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He’s still waiting for this to happen.
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