Requiem for a season

Take down the bunting.
Launder the flannels one last time.
Feed the remaining wieners to the hogs,
And un-tap the kegs of ale.

Pack up the leather and horsehide.
Incinerate the hexed ash-clouts.
Shoot out the lights and let the turf go dormant,
For base-ball is ended at the Fens.

Muffle the drums and silence the Rooters’ chorus.
Roll up the pennants with a bracing of naphthalene.
Lock the turnstiles behind the last exiting man,
And sweep the discarded score-cards into the ash-heap.

Lay in a quantity of Duffy’s.
Pull up a chair to the hot stove.
Brood on the fates of the Captain and the Colossus,
For today, the Bostons have fallen.

Godspeed to the General!

Assemble the troops before the good and virtuous Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, whose hill-top heroics in the waning days of October have become legendary. He has but one message for the flannel-clad warriors of the Boston regiment: Go forth in Victory!

The base-ball season hangs in the balance with to-night's tilt versus the formidable Floridians. One false step and those sun-kissed lads from Saint Petersburg will rain down mighty ash clouts, circling the bags with unrelenting fury. But our General has a crafty and forceful demeanor that, when all is right, makes the fairer sex swoon and the lads' knees buckle in flailing hysteria.

Let all Rooters hope the Good General brings his gunny-sack of greatness. The Nation's eyes are upon you, the commander of the mounding, the hurler-in-chief. In Beckett we believe!

Alive!

Stuffy is nearly speechless. But Rooters, this is all you need to know:

The Bostons will be playing base ball on Saturday evening.

Escape these chains!

The good lads of Boston are preparing for quite a fight this eve, when the Red Stockings engage the Floridians of the American Base-Ball League in the fourth of a best-of-seven matchup for league victors.

Today, the Bostons are in a two-games-to-one hole. One might say they are wearing the manacles of the underdog, those heavy steeled chains that apparently are binding our sluggers' hands to their leg-irons. Would that the Mighty Colossus and our Lil' Hands Pete have the strength to swing massive ashen clouts out of that abominable base-ball stade in the St. Petersburg area! Would that our hurling corps remind themselves of where "ball" and "strike" land, and how best to deliver the pill to would-be-swatters.

Tonight, let us remind our wobbly pill-man, Knuckles Wakefield, that all of Boston beseeches him to grasp victory with his well-leathered hurling hand.

Onward, Bostons!

NB: It has come to our attention at FCC that one David John Drew, whose clouting heroics against the Clevelanders were celebrated far and wide nearly one year ago this night, takes over the leading off position from our young buck, Jac Ellsbury, the human wind machine. Godspeed, David John! Round the basebaths so Little Horse and the Large Father may bring you home!

Which contest was Francona watching?

Today, like all Rooters, I am still befuddled by Skipper Francona’s decision to return our beleagured General to the mound. It was clear to even the peanut-peddlers plying the aisles that the General was “off.”

After a heroic triumvirate of clouts by the Bostons gained them the scoring edge, it was Francona’s duty to turn the pill over to the relief hurling corps. And yet, against all evidence, he instead let the General mount the hill again to disastrous effect.

I have yet to hear a valid explanation for this egregious lapse in base ball judgment. Yet one of my club-house sources told me that a messenger-boy delivered a hand-written note to Francona in the midst of the contest. My source could not read the entire note, but saw a signature scrawled on the bottom of the card.

It read: “G. Little.”

Speaking in clouts

Bleary-eyed Rooters awoke this morning still gobsmacked by the spectacle of swatting performed by our Bostons in last evening’s contest. Was it merely the fever-dream of the dyspepctic off his Duffy’s? Most certainly not!

It was, indeed, a contest book-ended by tremendous clouts from the Red Stockings, who have not let the unfamiliar environs of the Pacific Coast shake their resolve to achieve another World’s Championship Title. Fittingly, the decisive blows were delivered by two bats-men who share their names with mythical heroes from the mists of time.

First, Jason “Argonaut” Bay proved worthy to carry the name of that seafaring Greek adventurer, delivering a first-chapter four-bagger that achieved three “runs” for the local nine. Alas, frame after frame of pesky swatting by the Anaheims erased the Bostons superior run total, until our boys were down to their last three batting opportunities.

But then, “David” John Drew faced down the Goliath of closing-chapter hurlers, Francisco “Jowly” Rodriguez. Armed not with a sling, but with his ash bat, the result was the same. One stroke, and the villain was vanquished, as the pill sailed resolutely into farthest bulwark.

Huzzahs and congratulatory handshakes raced about the drawing room where myself, Hurdy Chadwick, and an extended gang of Rooters had been hanging on every hurl and swat conveyed over the wireless. The Bostons are as we speak steaming eastward to attempt a “sweep” of the Anaheims at Friendly Fenway Park. Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, scheduled to deliver the orb despite his recent infirmities, has no doubt been inspired by his team-mates to etch another heroic chapter in the legend of October Red Sox base ball.

V for Victory!

Indeed, the Anaheims spent a fruitless evening Wednesday swatting nothing but air as "Nothin' Doin'" Lester spun his webs of horsehide confusion. A fine way for the Bostons to announce themselves to the Los Angelenos!

There was much reveling after the victory according to the Hollywood reporters. "Lil' Hands" Pedroia--El Caballito in the flesh--celebrated in style at the Brown Derby, and at one point was good-naturedly accused of being "handsy" with the kitchen staff. Meanwhile "Yukon" Youkilis took in the scenes at one of the many moving pictures studios and in the end was featured in a newsreel bit starring none other than famed warbler Cornelius Smith, or "Old Smitty from Hartford," as he's known east of the Mississippi! What fun for our heroes from Boston, who spend more time clad in flannel and battling base-ball foes on the diamond than enjoying the sites and smells of good old U.S. America!

Alas, while Thursday was a day of rest and relaxation, today's squad buckled back down to business, assembling at the ball-park at an early hour to commence preperations for tonight's all-important matchup. This evening, Boston fans will warm the wireless tubes for a 9:30 p.m. showdown between Matsuzaka-san and Anaheimer "Big Erv" Santana.

What will come? Not one person knows! But know this: Hurdy and Stuffy and their assembled cronies will root, root, root for the gentlemen in red stockings, hoping heartily for a Boston homecoming with two matches stored tightly under the squad's collective belt. Moustaches will certainly be chewed, flagons of ale quaffed, and various meats gulleted by the gang. For baseball calls!

Stay tuned, good friends...

Prepare for battle!

One-hundred and sixty-two games in the musty old books. Thousands of pills delivered to home-plate, hundreds of erstwhile sluggers mystified by the Red Stockings' vexing hurlers. Numerous clouts beyond the reach of mortal base-ball fielding men, an uncountable basket of fine feelings among the Rooting set.

Tonight, the Bostons have completed their steam across country to the orange grove capital of the world, Anaheim, Calif., where they will take on the Angels of Anaheim in Los Angeles County. Halos be damned! Our boys are heading to battle, and Stuffy and I, Hurdy Chadwick, will be glued to the wireless, no doubt salving our anxious souls with a dose or two of Duffy's as the Bostons begin their post-season campaign.

Clear the women and children from the room: This is October base-ball!