Jubilation abounds at the City of Palms, where sun-dappled base-paths are freshly chalked with lime and ready for the dusty exploits of our home-town team.
But on this day, the park was whisper quiet, with nary a horsehide pill being lobbed nor a pine stick slicing through citrus-scented air. The gents were inside, lined up in their stocking feet, stripped to their underclothings for the spring ritual of Doctor's Day. Tongue depressors were stockpiled by the basketful and athletic girdles gathered in all shapes and sizes.
One Red Sock was conspicuously and curiously absent from the gay proceedings, however. Curt Schilling, that Teutonic rabble rouser whose prowess from sixty-feet-six-inches belies his penchant for all things gut-busting and Bavarian. A bum shoulder seemed the reason, though no more was forthcoming by Herr Schilling or his trusted club-house attendant, Lem "Sneaky Charles" Barlow.
Be assured that word one whispered will find its way into the Full Circuit Clout.
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