AT LAST, THE WAITING IS OVER.

Byline: PAUL OBERJUERGE

ANAHEIM - And on Oct. 27, 2002, the Angels ascended into heaven.

After 41 seasons of futility and frustration, incompetence and ineptitude, after four-plus decades in baseball purgatory, the Los Angeles/California/Anaheim Angels finally got it right. For all eternity.

They defeated the San Francisco Giants 4-1 in front of 44,598 jumping, shouting, chanting and clapping fans at Edison Field on Sunday to win the 98th World Series, four games to three.

Darin Erstad squeezed the final out in center field at 8:19 p.m., and the celebration was on. Fireworks rocketed into the sky behind center field. Red-and-white streamers shot into the air from the upper deck and floated to the field. The concrete rock formation beyond the fence pulsed geysers back-lit with red spotlights.

The sound system pumped out tunes such as ``Spirit in the Sky'' and ``Celebrate.''

``2002 World Champs'' appeared on one video screen. On another, predictably, was the mystical, magical Rally Monkey, the club's electronic mascot, pumping his little fists in paroxysms of simian ecstasy.

As the Angels rushed the field to mob pitcher Troy Percival, they left behind in the dugout all those hard, unanswerable questions that have followed around this franchise since its inception in 1961.

Never again will they explain why they always choked in the clutch.

Never again will they analyze why they never won anything.

Never again will they look at the roll call of World Series champions, or even Americans League pennant winners, and search in vain for their name.

All of that now on the trash heap of history.

Try this on for size, Angels fans:

``World-champion Anaheim Angels.''

Sounds good coming off the tongue, and now the Angels are a part of baseball lore. Like the Miracle Braves. The Bronx Bombers. The Gashouse Gang. The Big Blue Wrecking Crew. Like any World Series champion you care to name.

The Angels of Aught-Two. The Big Red Machine, Version 2.0.

By dispensing of the Giants in Game 7 the Angels finally validated themselves as a serious franchise.

This club no longer is a never-been-anywhere, never-done-nothing joke. Not a major-league afterthought. Not the American League's punching bags or the Dodgers' little brothers. Not the irrelevant team 30 miles south of Chavez Ravine on the Golden State Freeway.

The Angels have a championship to call their own, and the San Francisco edition of the Giants, to name one team, still does not.

It was a remarkable run these Angels made. From 41 games out in 2001 to 99 victories and the American League wild card in 2002.

In the postseason, they spotted the mighty Yankees a game in the divisional series, then staged a come-from-behind victory in Game 2 in the Bronx. They extracted a victory from a 6-1 deficit in Game 3 in Anaheim. Then they hung an eight-run inning on the Yanks in Game 4 to seal the deal and win a playoffs series for the first time.

Next came the American League Championship Series. Again, the Angels dropped the opener, then won Game 2 on the opponent's field. They came to Anaheim and the Angels won three consecutive, closing out the Twins with a memorable, neverending, 15-batter, 10-hit, 10-run inning in Game 5.

Finally, the World Series against a very good Giants team. One led by the greatest player in the game, and maybe the greatest player of all time, Barry Bonds. A Giants team that quite simply was the hottest in baseball, having compiled a 36-13 record going back to mid-August.

The Angels dropped the opener, then the magic began anew. They rallied from a 9-7 deficit to 11-10 victory in Game 2. Followed by a 10-4 blitz of the Giants in the numbing drizzle and intimidating tableau of Pacific Bell Park in Game 3.

And, of course, the moment that will immortalize these Angels, the rally from a 5-0, seventh-inning deficit to a spine-tingling, stayin'-alive 6-5 victory in do-or-die Game 6 - setting up Sunday's relatively sedate victory, sparked by Garret Anderson's three-run double back in the third inning and secured by a four-pitcher tag team.

On the way, we got to know a very special group of players. A team without a superstar, without one guy likely to make the Hall of Fame. But a team with half a dozen stars, 12-15 above-average players and 25 guys who knew their roles and performed them admirably when called upon.

This was a likeable bunch, rather like a Hollywood producer's casting call for a ``buddy'' war movie. Homespun Dakotan Erstad. Strong and silent Troy Glaus. Grizzled vet Tim Salmon. Spunky little overachiever David Eckstein. Ultra-cool Garret Anderson. Excitable Benji Gil. Laconic Adam Kennedy.

Salty Troy Percival. Nervous Jarrod Washburn. Big ol' Texan John Lackey. Quirky Ben Weber. Phenom Francisco Rodriguez.

And behind them all, manager Mike Scioscia, the ``sarge'' of this outfit, pushing buttons as if he invented them. Riding this horse, then that one. Tweaking, fine-tuning, allowing a championship season to unreel as if it were somehow inevitable.

Perhaps it was. Certainly, it was the Angels' turn. It had been for decades.

No more waiting 'til next year for these Angels. This year is next year, and it began Oct. 27, 2002.