Rarely after such a triumphant week-end of matches will I be at a loss to describe the diamond heroics of our Bostons. But this day, my thoughts are still consumed by a startling experience of aural distress at our fine ball-park.
Custom holds that many of our reserve hurlers decamp from the bull-pen to the rousing strains of a jig, or a bold brass march. But the appearance of our mighty south-pawed set-up man Okajima was announced by a new composition resembling nothing like music these ears have yet heard.
First came a shocking blast, like that of a steam whistle. Next was a relentless pounding such as that of a pneumatic steel punch through one-inch plate, followed by staccato reports of such hellish fury that I can only liken them to the sound of a rivet gun accident at the Iron Works. Above the din, the deranged shouting of a feral army, much like the fabled “Rebel Yell” that gave the Union boys a shiver in the War between the States.
Being one more comfortable with the gentle harmonies of a fine Rooter’s glee-club, deciphering these phrases proved beyond my abilities. But this infernal ditty must be a well-considered bit of gamesmanship intended to befuddle opposing bats-men. Indeed, a gentleman of medicine in my acquaintance assured me that the jarring sounds would rattle the vital humors in the ear canal, engendering tiny bubbles that upset the equilibrium necessary to square the bat against the pill.
It is an interesting trump card to hold in your hand – but such a frightening cacophony could render certain spectators in the grand-stands senseless, particularly those from the gentler sex! I trust they will use this weapon sparingly.
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