Angels ready for another run in heaven

ROGER CARLSON

With the baseball season just around the corner, I am reminded of the

question I find myself most often faced with when it is revealed that

I am an ex-sports editor/writer, who now dabbles with a Sunday

column.

“How do you think the Angels will do?,” is the standard question,

and astonishingly, the inquirers stand there waiting for some sort of

intelligent answer.

“I dunno,” I tell ‘em, beyond the question of strong or weak and,

frankly, I’m being pretty honest about it. The best that can be said

is they have a good shot; and the Dodgers do not.

Everyone seems to like the new owner, Arturo Moreno, and Vladimir

Guerrero is about as good as they come. I know Mike Scioscia has

folks like Tim Salmon and Garrett Anderson, and Troy Glaus and Darin

Erstad, and David Eckstein and Benjie Molina.

And the Angels manager has Troy Percival, but you don’t see him

until the eighth inning if things are going right.

I know most of them all turned red-hot at once and produced a

World Series championship in 2002.

When the subject of the Angels comes up, I’m often reminded of my

short-lived “tour” with the Angels in the early ‘70s.

Gene Autry’s Halos were managed by Harold “Lefty” Phillips and

shortstop Jim Fregosi was a very central figure. A personal favorite

was a third baseman named Ken McMullen and there was the specter of

Alex Johnson, the reigning American League batting champion.

Johnson had edged Boston’s Carl Yastrzemski on the final day of

the 1970 season with a .3289 average, .0003 better than Yaz.

The Angels had a policy of taking the local writers with them on

their road trips and the entourage always included the L.A.

Examiner’s Dick Miller, the Long Beach Press-Telegram’s Don Merry and

John Stellman of the Santa Ana Register, as well as a couple of

optional local writers.

I know for sure the two optionals on this occasion were there on a

gratis basis.

This particular trip, it was me and a guy from Palm Springs, whose

claim to fame was that he was Alex Johnson’s agent. At least that’s

what he kept insisting.

I told him if he was Johnson’s agent, how about setting up an

interview for me with Johnson.

He replied, “Are you kidding, I can’t get an interview with him,

either.”

All things considered, he would fit the bill perfectly for the

disgruntled Johnson.

The 13-day road trip included stops at Oakland, New York,

Washington, D.C. and Boston. For a 34-year-old “rookie,” it was an

awesome start to my “career” as a baseball writer.

As we flew from Oakland to New York, I had already picked up a

nickname, which was common for most writers. Miller, very funny and

an extremely sarcastic sort, equally in real life or in print, was

“The Pig.” Merry, very friendly and likable, but with a narrow jaw,

was “The Rat.” Stellman, for obvious reasons, was “The Rug.” The Palm

Springs guy, who was sent home early because of some sort of

treachery, probably would have been known as “The Weasel,” but in

fact was never classified.

I was “Gabby.”

The balance of the press entourage included the three radio guys

and a television announcer named Dick Enberg, who was so friendly and

open that you would have thought he knew me all my life. The radio

trio entertained with a constant 13-day barrage of criticism directed

at one of their own back in the studio.

I knew right away, long before we boarded the bus out of the Big A

parking lot that I was in over my head in the banter game with these

guys, so I played it the only way I could. I kept quiet, offered

nothing, which I could be hammered with and just tried to concentrate

on the business at hand.

And, of course, it didn’t go unnoticed. “The Pig” was referring to

me as “Gabby,” before we got halfway through the flight from Oakland

to New York.

Another writer, who didn’t travel with the Angels and pretty well

kept his distance from the motley crew that we were, was Ross Newhan

of the L.A. Times, who popped in for three or four games on the

Eastern swing and, to my knowledge, never did have a nickname.

Life on the road with the Angels was an eye-opener.

The grim quiet while traveling on the road began when one player

opened a letter, then, after a brief reading, crushed it up and threw

it on the floor as he turned and stared out the window.

At some point, the letter turned up in our hands (it must have

been the Weasel who scrounged around and picked it up under the

seats) and it started out explaining that the writer was a fan and

was sure he knew what the player had been doing wrong in his current

slump. Needless to say, the advice wasn’t appreciated.

Take it from me: If your favorite is in a slump, shut up and let

him deal with it.

Walking through the catacombs of Yankee Stadium and in the

Yankees’ dugout and clubhouse, which, at that time, was virtually

unchanged since the days of Babe Ruth, as well as postgame meetings

with Ted Williams, the manager of the Washington Senators, and the

ensuing trip to Fenway Park, was a dream realized.

Johnson was everything as advertised.

I had already seen him during the homestands at the Big A, but he

was at his best on the road as the King of Glare, seldom saying

anything in a very low voice beyond stuff you can’t repeat.

He would be sent off to Cleveland at the end of the 1971 season,

completing just two short years with the Angels, which was probably

the highlight of the year for Phillips.

I would cover Angel games for the most part the rest of the season

at home and, from time to time, staffed Angel home games for the next

few years. But the free trips came to a halt not long after my tour.

It has been a long time since those days with the Angels, but I

can tell you something that hasn’t really changed at all. They’re

still the unpredictable Angels.

And, surely, a four-game losing streak will lead to some to call

for the replacement of the stupid manager, and a four-game winning

streak will cause those same critics to fall all over themselves with

praise for the skipper. But I guess that’s baseball.

Hey! See you next Sunday!

* ROGER CARLSON is the former sports editor for the Daily Pilot.

His column appears on Sundays. He can be reached by e-mail at

rogeranddorthea@msn.com.