Some series you simply mourn over, awaiting their end.
In the seventies, playing the Red Sox in June was sort of like that. One simply waited for Yaz's three-run homer, or for Pudge's three-run triple off the top of the monster, or for Rice to fist the ball over Chambliss for another two-out run to score.
Just get the series over with, damnit.
Yeah, that's where we are with the Angels.