There is discontent in the air. It’s not the type that drenches a person with a feeling of ice cold water, but it is creeping in the Halos Heaven environment, like a stream slowly wearing away at a high and mighty rock. Tick, tick, tick, goes the clock. With each passing signing at a reasonable or unreasonable price, with each trade Jerry Dipoto makes from his bedside table, another stone is thrown through the safety of our little cocoon, the one that is sheltering us from the harsh reality of Major League Baseball. One day, possibly very soon, the dam will burst wide open, and little miniature keyboard warriors will come raging at Billy Eppler, decrying him for wasting the Trout years, not putting together a competent team, and other crimes, though none as bad as the first.
The Angels’ high floor ensures 2019 is far from lost
