I am imagining Pirates and these pirates wield swords made of paper halos. Behind them sits a sinister rally monkey pounding a sheet metal drum singing with the divinity of Gene Autry.
Topically this is tender: Introducing any Angel of any era beckons memories like a voodoo charm bracelet the spirits of the dead.
Before ingesting the 12 greatest outfielders in Angel’s history bear in mind this: I am but 29...nearing 30 fast as a freight train, but still, only 29.
I was born in a steroid era that redefined the game as we knew it, and quite honestly, created atmospheric electricity for the home run ball.
Am I saying I deter from listing outfielders who did/do not consistently hit with power? Not at all, but I am willing to admit that from my discernment of the position one should be a middle of the lineup hitter whom was/is feared.
Food for thought: our memories are make-believe.
They're like believing in Santa Claus, as fictitiously delicious as our league memoir seems, it is as incredulous as a Big Fish, and because of that, we're doomed to the ineptness of our insidious generational bias.