I'm watching the Yankees-Angels game. Since October, 2002 I've gone out of my way to avoid the sight of Mike Scioscia's team. All that red makes my stomach turn. Tonight I've discovered that my antipathy remains strong. Even the soothing sounds of Jon Miller and Joe Morgan do nothing to temper my malice. I don't care if half the players have changed. A few minutes ago I was remembering that student in my English 300 class from that nerve-addling semester who insisted on wearing his Angels cap to lecture. He had nothing to do with the World Series. But the worst moments of that course have swirled together with the worst moments of that postseason in my mind, as hard to extricate from each other as the peanut butter and chocolate on a Reese's. If I were the protagonist in a stream-of-consciousness Modernist tale, that student and his perpetually complaining classmates would be figured as rally monkeys. songsiheard, by contrast, would be tastefully attired in black and orange. It's time for the ninth inning. At least I can recall Barry's Game 6 homer off K-Rod as I watch him close out the game.