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Without the West Coast there would be no Vin Scully. I wasn’t born when the Dodgers played in Brooklyn but I’m alive today and thankfully so for otherwise my eyes and ears would mourn the absence of baseball. Pacific Standard style. With the crashing surf of the Atlantic Ocean bellowing in the distance, I peacefully drift to sleep with the symphonic melody of America’s Pastime cascading over deserts, mountains, rivers and time zones until finally arriving at it’s final destination. In my wildest dreams could I envision a better cure for insomnia. Nightmares be wary, there are Angels between these ears. Giants and Mariners too. Alphabets and Oakland may begin with A’s but my nights end with Zzzzzz.  My father taught me well. Now these Padres help me sleep. Manifest Destiny meets the major leagues. Until another dawn. Until another day. With gratitude. To West Coast baseball.