Oh, What a Story Mauch and Angels Almost Wrote

What the hell, maybe it would have been too perfect.

After 25 years of dusting and vacuuming and fussing with the furniture doilies, the Angels would have been too ready to host the big party.

They were this close to the playoffs, a heartbeat away from the World Series. But it would have been too perfect. A World Series for the team’s 25th anniversary.

They would have hung the red, white and blue bunting from the box seat railings and from the upper decks, and Anaheim Stadium would have outmagicked Disneyland.

Picture it.

“Jax Back in Fall Classic,” the headlines would have screamed.

“Autry Back in the Saddle for the First Time.”

“Mauch 1: Angels, Skipper Break Jinx Barrier”

To help celebrate the occasion, they would have brought back the old guys, Bo Belinsky and Albie Pearson and Jim Fregosi and Bill Rigney and the original cast.

They would have sent a long-overdue limo to pick up the noblest Angel of them all, little Jigger Statz of the old Pacific Coast League Angels. They would have had Jigger, who will turn 88 the week the Series opens, throw out the first ball.

They would have had a special introduction for Jimmie Reese, who was a bat boy for the old Angels in 1917 and is an 80-year-old coach for the new Angels.

History, tradition, and the sappy old sentiment that make baseball great would’ve been thick as pine tar at the Big A.

So would vindication. The Angels would have showed ‘em all.

Like the experts, who said the Angels were too old. No heart. No spark. No pitching. No bullpen. No wallbangers. A jinx ship with a jinx captain.

Ah, but the pennant would have proven otherwise. Sweet? Man, the Angels could taste it. They would have danced into the Series like 25 Fred Astaires.

The Little General would have been proud. The man has waited 23 years. All Gene Mauch has put into this kids’ game is his guts and his soul. He would have showed up at the ballpark wearing that same grim game face, but that October sunshine would have felt good.

The writers would have written about how Mauch has finally mellowed, become more human, easier to deal with, more gracious after losses. Mauch, who invented the agony of defeat and still holds the patent, would have lighted another cigarette, and the smoke would have hovered over his head like a cartoon thought-balloon filled with baseball strategy.

The writers, yeah, they would have had a field day.

You want angles? Human interest?

How about the Cowboy? Autry, who may not be able to wait another 25 years for a crack at the Fall Classic?

What about Rodney Carew, near the end of his career, with a chance to silence the real or imagined nattering nabobs of negativism who have dogged him for two decades?

What about Reggie Jackson, who saves his grandest Shakespearean dramas for these mid-October festivals? Anybody care to see Reggie digging in just one more time when the game is on the line? One of those moments when baseball creates the illusion that the whole world is standing still?

The sportswriters would have loved Bob (Kung Fu) Boone, the ageless catcher. They would have been fascinated by Brian Downing, the incredible hulk, the game’s foremost overachiever. They would have studied the spinal X-rays of Doug DeCinces, the world’s nimblest invalid.

They would have sung about unsung Juan Beniquez, elevated Donnie Moore to the highest echelon of bullpen heroes, marveled at the quiet intensity of the keystone combo--Kid Schofield and Old Folks Grich.

The network guys would have put together a highlight film of Gary Pettis’ greatest catches, backed up by some Vin Scully poetry, and we would have had ourselves an instant legend.

There would have been discussions on baseball philosophy, how the Angels started bringing the farm kids along, building from within, the old-fashioned way, and how it paid off. How Mauch and Mike Port took a group of fat cats and scared kids and whipped them into a tough and hungry team .

Chemistry. The writers would have used that word a lot.

Respect, too, that’s another word that would have gotten heavy keyboard play. After 25 years in the shadow of the Dodgers, the Angels would have busted out. A quarter-century of second billing, smaller headlines, grumbling about inferior media coverage and lack of recognition, the Angels would have had it all.

Lasorda and Sinatra and Rickles and the Hollywood Dodgers, hey, they all would have had to bow from the waist and tip their hats to the other team in town.

If only the Angels could have found another win or two, an extra home run or double somewhere down the stretch. Was that too much to expect in a season of miracles? Wouldn’t it have been been dramatic? Wouldn’t it have been fun?

Perhaps it would have been too perfect this year. But maybe it will happen yet. Maybe next year.