The remainders of a wastrel life

In the far reaches of Maine, school-aged children often pass a lazy fall Saturday by rounding up an adolescent sow, dressing it in herringbone outerwear and leading it to suckle on a fine Burgundy.

In much the same fashion, the White Stockings of Chicago's North Side aimed to dress our once-strong Gen. Joshua Beckett not in the epaulets and gleaming medals of heroism, but in the frilly frocks and lacy petticoats of a betrothed handmaiden. And instead of quaffing flagons of grit and determination, it was as if he was hoisting a dainty cup of chamomile and brushing biscuit crumbs with a finely stitched kerchief.

Indeed, our supposedly fearsome corps leader did nothing but play patsy with the North Side swatters in yesterday's tilt. If one of the opposing hitters had proffered a jumping rope, surely our General would have deigned to skip around the Fens singing school-yard ditties.

What is our General's malady? What keeps him from commanding the pill in the same way that George Washington guided his troops 'cross the Potomac on a cold winter's night?

Never fear, readers. These are among the questions we will strive to answer as we begin the stretch run to the season's end.