August the 20th, of the year two thousand and fifteen. I was walking through the balmy forest in Old Anaheim Cemetery, when I found a transistor device emanating a cheering, calamitous drone. I had been coming from the ARTIC station platform, home from a day's travels and business dealings, when the lure of the wooded, overgrown baseball diamond pulled me away from my impetus to be in my domicile. There I was, in the Old Anaheim cemetery and holding this mysterious radio screaming of the Angels, and the wearers of White Sox, and the sport I would learn the ancient ones called baseball.
At the mountains of badness: Angels driven to insanity by 8-2 loss to dreaded White Sox
