From the anti-sports dungeon, succumb in stacks of notes, I’m running rampant in my mind’s eye, just to scope a look at a few sports highlights.

It has been a solid week since I’ve had a chance to really take in and swallow the world around me. I’ve been trampled with a traveler’s bug–unlike the type you scratch on a wayfarer, freewheeling Euro-trip — tugging behind a roller suitcase filled with foul, unfolded laundry in the pits of what Cheech calls Al-Laye.

Yes I said foul. And no, I won’t take back the roller-suitcase. I’m 31-years old and fighting tennis elbow without even playing tennis, so give me some grace. Sheesh.  And as for the Cheech reference, if you don’t know who he is I suspect you grew up in a Monastery conducting a dozen Hail Marys for drinking one-too-many cokes.

Jest and non-jest aside, I’ve noticed a few things this last week that might mean something to both our sport-opinions and our everyday lives. Here goes….

Barry Bonds is a Hall of Famer

And not just a Hall of Famer, but get this…he’ll be a first ballot Hall of Famer. When you hit 764 home runs over the span of a career that consisted of more MVP awards than anyone in league history, you’re due your day in the sun.  It’s true, I like Barry Bonds as much as I do the idea of a colonoscopy. He stinks. But opine aside, the man is one of the three greatest hitters of all time, blessed with a bat speed unparalleled by any of his generation–with or without the juice. Which means…

If the door is opened to acceptance of the juice, so follows Sammy Sosa.

Sammy’s popularity is equivalent to his fading skin color. He’s been cursed with the Michael Jackson disease. But, if we open the door to Bonds, how can we not do the same for a man who, alongside Big Mac in 1998, reignited the great pastime with a record-breaking home run chase for the ages? His 608 home runs rank him 8th all-time, and the man is a legend in his own right.

But get this, Clemens will be excluded.

I know it sounds shady and two-sided, but Roger Clemens pissed off more purists, than either Bonds or Sosa. His unbelievable denial of a drug he popped straight from the hip, to the elbow, down into the jugular vein, will not now, and never will be pardoned by a makeshift conclusion at a ridiculous Federal court hearing. He has turned himself into nothing more than another Pete Rose.

They should let most of these guys in. Especially Pete Rose. By Kjunstorm from Laguna Niguel, CA, US. Color-corrected, cropped and red eye removed by Daniel Case 2008-07-16 (Pete Rose) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

A buddy of mine told me that two summers ago, he stood in a line at what seemed like a 5-by-7 baseball card shop, behind one overly large man wearing a Chris Sabo jersey, and two skin blotchy prostitutes, to get Rose’s autograph. For 50-bucks he walked out with a signed bat. Said Rose looked like hell, had a hollow grayness and smelled of Popov. Not even 4,000-plus hits all-time can save you from the purists’ guillotine. I still think Rose deserves the hall. So what if the man wagered against a game. He was like a switch-hitting Tony Gwynn blessed with an even softer, more fluid swing, and he played relentless and balls-out night in night out.

Which proves the disconnect between the Baby Boomer generation and ours, “ours” being ages-16 to 40.

How hypocritical to think our parents began a movement in the sixties more pornographic, pill popping, sexually explicit, than an uncut version of “Girls Gone Wild,” and yet despite this they want to preach moral stances on drugs, sex and rock n’ roll. The purists need to let it go with Lucy in the sky diamonds. She’s waiting. Because this generation has the right to judge and reinterpret the game for what it is today.  The era “we” were born into fostered PED’s and illegal sport wagering. That’s nothing like running naked in a psychedelic forest after bra-less gnomes. Embracing a moral relative stance on things, muddies the world around us, no doubt. Yet it allows for the right environment to induce all evolutionary phases of our lives.

With this, I propose a Generation X,Y,Z and Z1 rebellion via Facebook, Twitter and text-messaging.

Tweet complaints 2 @puristssuckballsanddie free Peter Rose; Post naty ill-infrmd fb mssags abt raunchy cheerldrs; Nd continue ths mssg by txt. “Lts strt a revolution btchs.”

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=0SsYVu1HkBA

Free Rose! Free Bonds! Free Sosa! Free Clemens! Free Palmeiro! But don’t ever let A-Rod in. Don’t even think about it. Even I have a moral code, and A-Rod is definitely the antithesis to it.

As I stare off tonight, starry eyed–ala Joey “Blue Sky” Harrington–into the planetary space of the abnormal, my wife is faithfully paying the bills and deciding whom to socially network with this week.  She is the planning operator, the assassin, the Nancy Kerrigan of the union. I, on the other hand, am a self-confessed Tonya Harding.

My only form of social networking is spinning over a few cold ones in a rundown pub–talking with middle-aged, divorced, unemployed conspiracists. They usually view professional baseball as a relative to marriage–systematically dead and broken, absorbed in its winner, less in its faceless building blocks. “Every winner needs a loser,” these men mutter, with overgrown hair hitting their eyelashes.

“Pre or post 18 Britney?” I ask to change the subject, counting the freckles on my left arm. My father called them war wounds in the womb. “Damn right,” I think (thirteen to be exact) turning one eye toward the TV, where an ESPN announcer blankly spits on my beloved Angels for overpaying  a thirty-two-year-old loser from Toronto. I always liked Vernon Wells… just not for eighty six million over the next four.

The pause is timely, allowing our intoxicated minds to find meaning in the topic at hand. “Pre” he says, slamming the frothing stout on the greasy bar top, with a Reagan-like head nod.  A belly the size of a ten pound bag of potatoes with black fuzz and poor complexion smiles from the creased top of his pants.

“Pre…nah,” I say shaking my dog mane hair, stepping a bit back,  examining him closer…world spinning.

“Another on me,” he slurs, pointing to the empty glasses glimmering in the dim-lit bar.

I like the whacked out Spears, like a rock conniseurewould like the Beatles drug induced psychedelic jams. Things need to be frayed, in disharmony, boundless, outside the box. Not collected, perfect, take home to your mother kind of stuff.

When I decided on the California Angels in 1987, I was five, and they were losing a game to the Minnesota Twins 21-1. Chuck Finley, who had pitched the day before, had to spell the Angels’ final relief pitcher in the 6th inning. My father was a fan of Wally Joyner, but growled with disapproval at my penitence of faith in arguably the worst franchise in league history. He had raised me on the greats of his generation: Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, and Sandy Koufax. His interlink between coach and fatherhood ransacked my father’s ability to see clearly when it came to giving his growing son real advice (he once told me marriage is like hanging yourself by your nads). But in this instance, learning the hard way was learning the best way of all. My father saw this, and went with it. “Oh yea…” he said, chopping some hash on his lap,”better get used to the pain of losing, then.” And I did.

My marriage to the California/Anaheim/Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim is now in its twenty-fourth year of union. For seventeen of those I got used to losing and being the laughing stock of any sports or barbecue gathering. Most of my friends growing up were die hard Giants or Dodger fans. They idolized popular names like Barry Bonds, Orel Hershiser, Francisco Valenzuela, Matt Williams, Will Clark, and Mike Piazza. In 1988, the Dodgers won a World Series, and in 1989, the Giants played in the famous earthquake series against the A’s. Loving the Angels was like dating their ugly adopted sister. Which is why to this day I can still hear the faint laughter of my friends chewing on a dripping piece of tri-tip.

I knew growing up that the Angels would finish dead last in the division nine times out of ten. So losing took on a meaningful life of its own. Each “L” accrued night in, night out, gave me a sense of pride that I, unlike so many of my friends, could be true to an organization no matter how bad they were (yes I am speaking to you Clipper fans). I idolized Wally Joyner–“Wally World”–the 1986 American League Rookie of the Year. Had it not been for various injuries, the lifetime .289 hitter with 204 home runs and 2,060 hits, would have landed himself in the baseball Hall of Fame. But like  “Wally World” was a rust riddled park in Chase’s famed “Family Vacation,”  so was Joyner’s body. It did as an Angel should do: fall apart.

Which reminds me of our famous collapse in 1995. For the first time in ten years, my Angels, who consistently lost 90-100 games a year, were flirting with the postseason.  On August 6th, the Angels had a 10 1/2 game lead on the Texas Rangers and an 11 1/2 game lead over the Mariners. But a nine game losing streak from August 22nd to September 3rd, and one from September 13th to September 23rd, found the Angels one time gargantuan lead whittled to a tie breaker game with the Mariners to decide who made the postseason. The Mariners ace Randy Johnson hurled a one run, three hit effort, obliterating us 9-1.

From 1987-2002, the Angels missed the postseason. So in order to find pride in things, I had to fall in love with the faces of their losing tradition. Each one of them, like me, was a stalwart ballplayer who played more for the love of the game than he did to experience a winner’s glory.

Remember Chili Davis,  the Angels starting left fielder from 88-90, 93-96? Davis enjoyed an eighteen year career that saw him quietly finish with 350 home runs, a .279 batting average, and 2,355 career hits. More known for the hilarity of his first name, Davis was a rock for the Angels clubhouse in the mid-90’s.

How about Luis Polonia, the 5-8  145 pound gremlin lead-off hitter from 90-93′? Most of Polonia’s thirteen year career was littered with injury. But from 90-93′, Polonia played in 90% of his games and celebrated a .297 batting average. He had the keen ability to slap the ball the other way, and steal bases to set up runs for the Angels big hitters.

Big hitters like the famous Kelly Gruber. Gruber’s forgettable ten year career was predominately played in Toronto, till he finished even more forgettably in 93′ with the Angels. He played eighteen games with three home runs and nine RBIs. Let’s just say Gruber is a favorite of mine when playing “name that random athlete.”

Or how about a big overweight piece of you know what in first baseman Mo Vaughn? Vaughn, the poor man’s Big Papi, signed a record size contract at the time–80 mill over six with Anaheim in 1999. The supposed savior for a franchise with no big names, struck out one hundred eighty times in 2000, and missed all of 2001 with a torn ankle ligament, after slipping in the dugout.

Gary DiSarcina played all eleven (’89-’00) of his big league years with the Angels.  A myriad of injuries created a sort of cult following for the hardworking DiSarcina, which was odd, considering he was only a lifetime .258 hitter. For much of my young life I believed DiSarcina was a near .300 hitter who had played in numerous all-star games.  It was not until last year, that the rose-colored glasses of Angel fandom were ripped from my eyes, showing me just how bad DiSarcina was for most of his career.

As we all know, you can’t win games without great pitching. Which was exactly what the Angels did not have. Besides Chuck Finley and Mark Langston, the Angels starting rotation mimicked that of a little league team. John Farrel, a true workhorse, always made me feel secure when he was on the mound. In 1993, the stud finished 3-12 with a 7.35 era.  It must of been the lack of run support for guys like Farrel or Kirk McCaskill (yeeeaaa riggghhhhhttt). McCaskill’s stunning performance in 1991 left quite a legacy for Angel pitching, finishing the season 10-19 with an amazing 1 to 1 strikeout to walk ratio.

On the eve of the 2002 season I made a bet with my father. I told him the Angels would make the playoffs for the first time in sixteen years. He took the bet and gave me three to one odds. As the season progressed and the Angels got better and better, my father found himself rooting for them as I did. He took a sense of pride in knowing that his son was the kind of man who had stuck it out with no-name failures. When the Angels wrapped up the wild card and a season of 99-63, my father and I reminisced on all the past Angel greats (or “not so greats”). We chuckled remembering Mark Langston’s high leg kick, and Devon White’s inability to hit a change up.

When the Angels shocked the world and won the World Series, I lamented a bit in the celebration. I now had an expectation that they would win year in year out.  No longer could I use their losing as an excuse for my languished faith or diligent grit. “Welcome to the big leagues,” my father said jokingly, during the World Series celebration. Slapping a hundred in my hand (original bet was thirty bucks, which means with my win he owed me ninety), he continued, “take the extra ten dollars as a tip for being so damn faithful all these years.”

As the 2011 season fast approaches, I am unamused or concerned with our 80-82 campaign in 2010. For many of the new era fans, the people who hopped on after our 2002 World Series, winning is everything. From 2002 to present the Angels have developed into a perennial power with five division titles and six playoff births. But winning is just a speck in the eye of my love for Angel baseball, and does not deter me from celebrating a lifetime of appreciation for players who paved the way for our recent string of success. My love for the unexpected is far stronger than a insecure need to be crowned champ every year.

In fact, with all this winning I am beginning to get a bit uncomfortable. Which is why the Kansas City Royals are sounding pretty damn good right now.