Colossal clouts!

Here is the measure of greatness!

Our hero, the Colossus, delivers one four-ply drive to knot the tally in the second frame. Then he repeats his feat of swatting to secure the victory in the final chapter!

Small children stand slack-jawed! Ladies swoon! Opponents cringe and cry! Rooters rejoice!

Come and stay a while, gents!

Well, yes, the quality of base-ball since the All-Star hiatus has been at best lackadaisical, and at worst a Hindenburg-like conflagration of awe-inspiring proportion.

But put simply, we lost two of three matches against the hated rivals from Gotham. That in a nutshell is Boston base-ball in the dog days of August. Win one, lose several. Place aces across the pentagon one night, and find the ash sticks asleep the next two tilts. Proffer vexing deliveries from the hurling mound, and follow that effort with amateurish pill tossing from a variety of relief pitchers.

Indeed, consistency is lacking in the Fens. Does that mean the season is crudded beyond repair? Surely not, dear Rooter! Whilst the Red Stockings aren't likely to hoist the American League East pennant in next year's opening day festivities, there still is a chance of post-season heroics to carryover and complement the bunting-festooned park next April.

Dare to dream, friends! Dare to dream...

Purge this name from the Ages!

If the far future, when my grandchildren ask me to regale them with tales of gallant base-ball heroes from the aughts, let me never speak the name “Wooden Nickel” Penny.

Indeed, last evening’s hurling display -- if one can indeed call that disaster “hurling” – certifies his worth somewhere far below the kindly copper for which he is named.

Let not his girthy visage grace a souvenir tobacco card in your next packet of Old Judge, Mayo Cut Plugs, or Ramly Cigarettes. He deserves no enshrinement.

Keep this paunchy pumpkin-tosser far from the hill in any meaningful contest. He has not the mettle for the task.

Good news, but more dunderheadedness

School-age lads from Point Judith to Presque Isle cheered for the return of Alex "Sure Mitten" Gonzalez, the defensively minded between-sacker that so awed Rooters three seasons ago. Indeed, such a move makes a Rooter feel more optimistic about his team's chances...

...that is, if the Red Stockings' flannel-bearers weren't a load of dunderheaded nincompoops intent on sabotaging each and every tilt with shoddy hurling, ineffectual swatting and an altogether laissez-faire attitude in all facets of the game.

Now, dear readers, forgive my foul and foreign language. But I have thoroughly chewed and twirled my moustache over the week-end series versus the Rangers of Texas. Frustrating, indeed.

Yet, shall we retain some optimism for the season? Daresay, yes, good friends. Yes, indeed.

Fisticuffs!

Yukon Youkilis, the Beard of the Ages, will sit away from action for five tilts thanks to his fury in last night's donnybrook.

I would gladly offer him five days of leisure -- and endless drams of Duffy's -- in bucolic Westbrook, Maine, for his heroism and pluck.

Good show, Yukon!

Tonight, let the Red Stockings continue their rampage.

Back to the future

Fresh from the miasma of despair in the Bronx, the Red Stockings apparently decided to engage in some base-ball play last evening. The final: Bostons 6, Detroits 5.

A "win"!

Indeed, the heroes of Boston-town made offensive hay off of All-Star hurler Edwin "Action" Jackson, notching several full-circuit clouts and at least one base-hit for nearly every member of the starting roster.

And though the bullpen followed the tried-and-true routine of "douse self in kerosene, ignite match, combust self", "Dancin' Jonny" Papelbon emerged from the reserve dugout to nail the match shut.

Best news of all: Those New Yorks, who so tormented the Red Stockings over the week-end, lost a tight nine-framer to division peers Toronto.

Good tidings. Perhaps all is not lost.

Emergency! Disaster! Disaster!

Like the great molasses flood that ended the lives of dozens of Bostonians, the recent events in Rooterville has shook verily to the core the faith of Red Stockings supporters from New Bedford to Bangor.

For six tilts against Eastern League rivals -- the Tampas and the dastardly New Yorks -- our once-vaunted heroes in flannel have appeared as if they are the buffoons at a sideshow carnival, the local lads gathered together to sport against the magically skilled players of the traveling circus.

Where to begin, friends? Perhaps we can broach the subject of the leaky relieving corps, whose propensity for delivering steaming piles of meat to opposing batters has made them more likely to find employment as servers at a North End spaghetti establishment.

Or, perhaps we might discuss the terribly limp noodles that our supposedly fearsome swatters chose to wield instead of their usual racks of ash clouting bats. Again, perhaps our offensively-minded base-ballers would more enjoy a role in the kitchen at said restaurant, choosing whether to fashion their meal into linguini, rotini or even spaghettini!

What about the revelations of The Colossus and his use of various liniments and ointments meant to increase swatting power? Or the discovery that "Lil' Hands" Pedrioa is just a lad of 15 years? Or that Mr. Matsuzaka-san has been sighted frolicking at the far points of Cape Cod rather than deign to palm the horsehide and vex another batsman?

Could it also be the parade of newly-minted Red Stockings treating the turnstiles of Fenway Park into a revolving door of mediocre talent? Whether from the enclaves of Providence and Portland or the confines of some other ball-club, men have continued to stream to the Fens to fill the ranks emptied by injured Red Stockings.

Indeed, when the Beard of the Ages, Yukon Kevin Youkilis, is reduced to patrolling the left outfield for games at a time, it is a signal of desperation from the franchise brain-trust.

The upshot: It is a veritable disaster of the highest order when the Bostons are reduced to a bench of simpering ninnies at the hands of our rivals.

My advice to our erstwhile heroes: Wipe away the tears and let us not hear your whimpers. Shoulder the bats like men, and toe the mounding rubber with authority. Take charge of your futures, men.

If you cannot, all will be lost.

A rotten surprise!

As I was enjoying a summer’s eve in our fine burg of Portland, I joined my esteemed colleague Hurdy Chadwick for a cool, restorative ale at a local tavern. Being a thoroughly modern establishment (which welcomed ladies alongside gentlemen for refreshment!), the saloon featured a state-of-the-art wireless broadcasting the exploits of our beloved Red Stockings.

Upon finishing our beverages and departing for a performance by a noted chanteuse, we made note of the contest’s status – 2 “runs” accumulated by the Bostons with few chapters remaining to be played! Huzzah!

After many hours of song, I returned to my home expecting a victory in the Bostons' ledgerbook. Shockingly, my home wireless was still transmitting a contest in progress, which was quickly ended (to the Bostons' detriment) by a four-ply-drive from the upstart Tampas!

Indigestion commenced, ruining an otherwise fine evening.

Once again, our relief hurlers bear the responsibility. I have taken to calling our bull-pen by a new name: The tinderbox.

A race to the finish!

Last week, as I was sunning my paleness and nursing ale after ale on a remote Maine island, I had little knowledge as to the coup young Theodore Epstein was cooking up in his Fenway office. He most certainly wore his Number 2 to a nub scratching out various "trading" scenarios, and reportedly considered offering J.D. "Old Aches and Pains" Drew to the Padres of San Diego for a barrel of sorghum and a case of hermetically sealed Zwieback toast.

But fate intervened and, when the dust settled, the Red Stockings were among the few trade deadline victors in all of base-ball. Coming to Boston was Victor "Loose Limbs" Martinez, the crowd-pleasing, switch-swatting catcher-cum-first-sacker that has so energized the Indians of the Ohios. Since joining the Heroes in Red, Loose Limbs has performed admirably, engendering plaudits from the men Rooters and swoons from the ladies in attendance at the ballpark.

Above all, it seems Loose Limbs also has provided a much-needed spark in the clouting department, as Boston's offensive ensemble has begun swatting with the urgency of a man trapped in a gibbon cage.

Meanwhile, it is good-bye to Justin Masterson, the gangly deliveryman who has showed much promise on the mounding in his short time with the Major League Club. Alas, we hardly knew ya, Ol' Master-tone! Cheers to your future hurling exploits in your home state, and may you forget your refined pretzel delivery upon next facing our heroes of the Fens!

Other assorted pieces of the dug-out puzzle were put into place, including a farewell to Mr. Adam LaRoche, and a huzzah to Casey Kotchman, yet another able-bodied first sacker. (Perhaps Mr. Epstein believes that the key to championing is a roster replete with first sackers, whose lithe frames and dextrous mittens may offer hints of excellence in other areas of fielding?)

Today begins a difficult stretch for the Bostons, as the face a two-tilt set with the Champs from Tampa, and a four-gamer with the hated Yankees of the Bronx. Indeed, sitting one-two-three atop the American League, the Yankees, Red Stockings and Tampas are snuggling together for what is certain to be a clever finish to the regular season. August is early, but the nip of the September air is soon to be felt among our flannel-clad heroes.

Friends, this is when base-ball matters. This is when prowess with the pill and the ash stick separates he-men from street lads. This is for the whole kazoo, chums!

Let us be victorious!