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.
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