Hope is a word made up of a finicky nature.
It comes pre-packaged with proactive and prudence—two ingredients which, without a doubt, cause hope to flat line into cynic-coma.
The deadline has passed, and no moves were made to make my Angel indigestion smooth over and go away.
No; instead, I am popping cynical tums like a hot dog eating contestant.
Mike Trout faded as fast as a wintering Alaskan sunset, and the league rival Rangers continue to mount an enormous surge toward utter AL dominance.
Sure, we're currently just two games back of Texas. But if closely investigated, our middle relief is one of the poorest in the league, and our lack of offensive pungency distorts a top rotation.
Not to get more negative, but...with Jered Weaver awaiting some form of suspension for his Bob Gibson-esque antics, we are closer to life support than any of us suspected.
For this reason alone, I am calling for Tony Reagin's head and asking Arte and Co. to oust the wayward GM to the bounds of unemployment.
Insert a temporary chip and hire a realist at the position next season.