Since the day he was born, he was an Angel fan. Had he been weak and flabby, prone to bouts of inattention, abandoning games in the seventh inning, or been disfigured by an affinity for teams bought by giant cable incomes instead of the hard earned cash of a beloved tunesmith/cowboy he would have been thrown from the cliffs of Fernando Mania and left for dead on the floor of Chavez Ravine.

Nursed in the warm bosom of Gene Mauch’s radness, then as a young boy, hardened in the cold, desolate eras of Cookie Rojas, Doug Rader, and Buck Rogers, he returned from his trials a man, but more! Encompassing more excitement than Bobby Gritch’s mustache, reeling off baseball wisdom faster than Gary Pettis can strike out, with more raw power than the millions of hitters who seemed to hit home runs off Willie Fraiser, all the statuesque dignity of Brian Downing, and the stone cold looks of Kirk McCaskill…. he is Gitchogritchoffmypetis. The friggin General Sherman of Angel fans.

I also like pizza and mint.

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