Wish Granted

He blew out the candle — a single number 8. We ate cake, got in the car, and drove 70 miles to Anaheim on a school night.

Some kids ask to go to Disney for their birthday. My son doesn’t ask about The Happiest Place on Earth; he wants Angel Stadium.

I don’t remember my wife or daughter reminding the birthday boy to make a wish as he sat in front of the cake, candle aflame. It certainly never crossed my mind. I didn’t even think about it until I read yesterday’s shocking news: Arte Moreno had sold the Angels.

So the little guy had made a wish. And it came true one day later! How do you like that, Jiminy Cricket?

Late in the game on Monday night, as on most nights at the ballpark, a group of enthusiastic young men gathered in the erstwhile empty uppermost section all the way down the right field line. They removed their shirts and waved them vigorously over their heads as they chanted. Sell the team! Sell the team! Sell the team!

My son, from his seat on the other side of the stadium, joined in for a few rounds (still wearing his shirt). He doesn’t fully understand the atrocities of the Moreno Era, but he knows where to find the Angels when he pores over the standings. He’s tired of always lowering his gaze.

I’m not sure we’re better off as a society now that those bros’ efforts have been validated, but revolution always comes at a cost.

On the first pitch of the game Monday night, Yankees DH Ben Rice made solid contact with Walbert Ureña’s 98 MPH sinker. Mike Trout retreated, and so many of the questions I’ve pondered all season surfaced. How many times has Trout eased his pursuit and watched a fly ball sail over the centerfield wall? How many leads has he seen disappear over his head, far out of his reach, and into the bleachers? How many seasons have slipped away in the late innings, and when would the losing finally change him?

Rice got just under the ball, and Trout settled under it. One pitch, one out.

Minutes earlier, the Angels franchise player was finishing his pregame routine. As the relievers made their nightly journey to the bullpen, Trout offered encouragement and hand shakes to each of them. Then he high-fived the two stadium security guards along the third base line. The standings didn’t matter in the moments leading up to first pitch. Trout wanted to make sure his people were ready and knew he was thinking of them; everyone feels better when he’s there.

Eight innings later, with the Angels comfortably leading the Yankees, 10-1, manager Kurt Suzuki made a couple substitutions. Everyday players Zach Neto and Wade Meckler were lifted. Their replacements would handle baserunning duties and ninth-inning defensive responsibilities.

In the top of the ninth, my son asked why Neto was no longer playing. I explained that we’re nearing the end of a long season, and even a one-inning break — both physically and mentally — might help him stay stronger during the final month.

At the same time, Trout was still in center. I like to believe that the victory celebration with his outfielders helps him maintain strength, that it replenishes his soul. Even the winningest players are afforded only so many post-game handshakes and high-fives. Mike Trout doesn’t want to miss one.

He must love being out there — in The Happiest Place on Earth.