Sweet relief!

The week-end's tilts were fraught with suspense. To be sure, not a moustache in New England was left dry by nights' ends, and pints of Duffy's littered the gutters from Fall River to Fort Kent. When the dust settled and Monday broke like a damp fevering, it was the Heroes of the Fens ahead of Gotham's high-priced dilettantes by one match on the season. A narrow margin, but a favorable margin none-the-less!

But so peculiar is the work that does his turning: The Red Stockings are laying waste to those Nordic Minnesotans -- with their aw-shucks demeanors, farm-bred musculatures and Lutheran work ethics -- while the Gothams are experiencing fissures in even their most stout ramparts. To wit: Crafty veteran Mariano "El Fruitbat" Rivera, King of the K, Master of the Cutter, appears to be losing his campaign against Father Time, El Padre de los Niños y la Felicidad.


I, for one, say a hearty Huzzah to the fine work of El Padre, and His own crafty veteran abilities. But this is not the time for gloating: Instead, let us cheer the Heroes of Olde Towne and embrace the two-dozen-plus-one that wear the Boston Flannel day in and day out. 


May the season continue apace!

Base Ball Returns -- Not a Moment Too Soon!

Rooters, cease chewing your mustaches and grab your megaphones, drums and cornets! Base Ball contests resume to-night, with the Bostons meeting the "Rays" of Tampa.

Suffering through the annual mid-season pause routinely brings the otherwise fit to the brink of nervous exhaustion. How else to explain the tale of this poor gent, which I picked up from the news wires. Surely a man in his right mind would never complain about a banquet of sausages!

No, these actions betray the signs of a Rooter longing for a finely twirled tilt:

Sausage Gets on the Nerves

CHICAGO — Linked sausage, long drawn out, served for breakfast, dinner, supper and between meals, drove Charles Jensen from his home at 3629 Harper avenue. It got on his nerves.

Liverwurst, German sausage, schnapps and bologna is poor diet for a steamfitter who earns $35 a week and wants steak once in a while. It's bad for the nerves.

Charles told Municipal Judge Torrlson in the court of domestic relations the other day that he had run away from sausage, his wife and six children.

"She gave me bologna for breakfast, llverwurst for dinner and German sausage for supper," he said "Once in a while she changed the diet with frankfurters and schnapps. I want steak once in a while.

"Honest, judge, it got so bad that every time I heard a dog bark I could smell dinner cooking. I can't work on a delicatessen diet of sausage all the time. I earn $35 a week and want steak."

"It isn't sausage. It's another woman," declared Mrs. Jensen. "He ran away from me four months ago and went to another woman somewhere on the Pacific coast. He liked sausage all right until he got 'moony' over the other woman. Sausage may not be good for married men who love other women."

"Sausage or woman — It doesn't matter," said Judge Torrison. It's just a plain case of nerves. You've looked at each other so long across plates of weinerwurst that you've got on each other's nerves. Cut out the sausage once in a while and you will get along all right. Better read a book on the control of the nerves."

Judge Torrison ordered Jensen to pay his wife $12 a week.

Derbies? I'm More of a Boater Man

Loyal readers may recall my chagrin at the arrival of the annual Four-Ply-Drive Derby.

My opinion has not changed on this sweltering July evening, even tho’ our home-town hero "The Colossus" captained the American League squad chosen to whange away at the dew drops delivered by their hand-picked hurling partners.

No, I would prefer to get this mid-season pause behind us “toot sweet,” as the vaudeville joke-slingers say.

July Skyrockets!

30,000 perplexed Rooters rushed home from Fenway Park yester-day evening to check the date on their wall calendars. Did we not, as a nation, just complete our Independence Day celebrations, or was Father Time somehow turned about to revisit the Festival of the 4th?

Their bafflement was understandable, given the pyrotechnic spectacle performed by the Boston bats-men: A sextet of screamers!

Hapless Oriole hurlers held the Bostons’ clouting prowess much too cheaply, as evidenced by the repeated launching of the sphere into the July night sky. Hub-area reflexologists will undoubtedly be overwhelmed to-day with patients seeking relief from the crick-necks developed after watching six pills arc over the stadium fences!

Yet no Rooter will complain for his discomfort, as the offensive explosion propelled the Red Stockings to the pinnacle of the Eastern Division standings. Let us enjoy this lofty perch a while, gents!

The Blasted Doldrums!

The Red Stockings’ once-mighty batting brigade now resembles a great clipper ship becalmed in the horse latitudes. There’s no vim to their swinging. No clout in their ash. No huzzahs and handshakes from cheerful team-mates welcoming a compatriot back from the full-circuit of the diamond.

Accordingly, there are no “wins” in the recent box-scores, and this Rooter is getting restless! When the lone “run” achieved by the squad comes from the surprise swat of "Simple Jack" Lackey, it is apparent that there is a malaise among the Nine.

Why, I’ve seen my grandfather direct Rummy Pete to put down cows with the Trembles who yet appeared more healthy than this lot of lulus!

Gentlemen, please return to your fence-busting feats, and bring joy back to Rooters’ hearts!

All Wrapped Up!

According to wire reports from the city's news-houses, Red Stockings helmsman Terrence "Terry" Francona spent much of the week-end huddled in the dug-out, wrapped in a rough burlap chemise. The body shaking and pursed lips of the inimitable Skipper must have led many to diagnose an acute case of the grip, or at least a mild ague.

Alas, were it only an illness confined to the Fearless Leader of Heroes. The truth was more difficult to bear than a tumbler of castor oil after a Revere Beach roller coaster trip: The Red Stockings' ash sticks were as silent as the day they were hewn from the woods of Methuen. Altogether poor clouting from the gathered nine led to a four-match stretch of arid and unforgiving terrain.

Fortunes be had, however. Sunday's match felt the hand of the Almighty tipping the scales in the Boston's favor. Those ne'er-do-well High Seas Marauders from the City of Pittsburgh committed a Pennsylvania's worth of follies, from pill-booting muffs to tender-handed boners amongst the fielding corps. That allowed plates from the Heroes from the Fens, despite their ash sticks still remaining as ineffective as a North End wastrel mounting a campaign against indecency and opium dens (imagine such a scenario!).

A remarkable message to send!

You've probably noticed, loyal reader, that your correspondents at FCC have been away for some time now.

Well, the truth can now be told: Hurdy, SD and I were on a secret scouting mission to sniff out some Nipponese pitching talent in Honshu and Hokkaido, now that Mr. Matsuzaka has subjected himself to the surgeon's scalpel.

It is important to keep those Eastern tourists flocking to Yawkey Way, so their Yen may be spent on Wally dolls and miniature replica bats!

So this explains our protracted absence. We trust our many thousands of avid rooters will not begrudge us the need to take time off for this important work.

Alas, we were not able to uncover much in the way of shuuto hurlers and gyroballers in the Land of the Rising Sun. We did enjoy some delectable sashimi and some potent sake, however.

And we did receive a rather startling telegram, sent to us directly from the Lower Depths tavern on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston Towne:

BOYS, WE HAVE OURSELVES A TEAM HERE. THEY HAVE MADE QUICK WORK OF THEIR RECENT COMPETITION. CONSECUTIVE SWEEPS OF OAKLAND, NEW YORK AND TORONTO. NINE GAMES AND COUNTING. AND ROUTS LEFT AND RIGHT! SO FAR 83 RUNS SCORED. SEE YOU SOON STATESIDE.

We all had a good laugh upon the receipt of that note. Obviously some pie-eyed punter had spilled a tall can of Narragansett on the telegram machine, causing typographical errors to be made, because such preposterous numbers simply cannot be true. Can they?

Timber!

Heavens to Murgatroyd! I haven't witnessed a sustained swinging of lumber like that since the failed gold rushers of '49 took to felling the giant redwoods of Humboldt County!

Why, the hurlers of the Lake Erie Tribe had nary a chance in the face of such a potent onslaught of batsmanship! They were akin to an unlucky spelunker, standing afore a darkened cave, from which flew thousands upon thousands of rousted bats!

Cleveland soft-tosser Mitch "Pitch Don't Belly Itch" Talbot was almost certainly not expecting his afternoon to play out as it did. Nor, in truth, was your humble scribe!

A dozen hits, and eight earned runs in merely three innings! Seven of those in just the first frame!

A circuit clout from Lil' Hands Petey! Followed close on by a single! And another single! An error! A sacrificial fly ball! A single! Yet another single! Meanwhile, the men moved round the bases in a steady and joy-making counter-clockwise motion, like the gaily painted ponies of a child's carousel toy.

The hits came hard and fast. And some of them went far!

Salty! Pow! The Colossus! Kaboom!

Why, even speedy but scuffling Carl Crawford decided to take advantage of these advantageous circumstances! He had his biggest red letter day in his Red Sox flannels so far, going a perfect four-for-four with two doubles, a circuit clout, three runs scored and two runs-batted-in!

By the time five further runs were pasted to the scoreboard in the sixth, the result of this contest was more than preordained. The boys from Boston had shown these would-be world-beaters who, in truth, is boss.

Such an outburst was hardly needed of, course, with the steady left hand of Jonathan "Nothin' Doin" Lester, ever in control as he trundled forth to his best-in-baseball seventh win!

It seems that day-time base-ball suits the Bostons very well indeed. So let's be thankful that tomorrow's match is similarly to be played at a post-meridiem hour.

May the afternoon sun continue to shine on the local nine!

The Fenway Phantom

Rooters: I have seen a ghost!

In truth, I’m haunted by this spirit at least four times each night, when an apparition formerly known as “Ol’ Aches and Pains” Drew materializes in the batting box.

How else can one explain the inconsequence with which Ol’ Aches and Pains swings his stick? Ectoplasm has no mass, and without mass there is no kinetic energy to transfer from pine to pill.

Instead, an astral body wearing the Number 7 Flannels glides silently into a swatting stance for each turn at the dish and hovers there in the ether. When he chooses to wave his lumber we hear not the crack of a crisply-struck “hit”, but a feeble sigh from the spiritual realm.

Madame Blavatsky herself could not conjure a more astonishing demonstration of the “other side.” But I, for one, am tired of this spook-act, and would greatly prefer that Ol’ Aches and Pains returns to his corporeal form and applies the physical molecules of wood to horsehide.

Not half bad!

Happy days are here again! The skies above are clear again! So let's sing a song of cheer again! Happy days are here ag-aaaaaaaa-iiiii-n.

Er, scratch that second one, on second thought. These cold and gray skies look like they've got plans to unpack their bags and stay for a spell.

But that's just A-OK anyway, see?! Because the boys of summer are back! Back at a .500 clip for the first time since that snowy April Fool's Day that sometimes seems so long ago.

The glass if half full! The future looks sunny once more!

For weeks, the quest to finally notch as many victories as losses seemed a Sisyphean struggle. Each time the Bostons were one game away from that milestone of mediocrity, they'd spit the bit, and so find themselves two games back again.

But not this week-end! Not when faced with a team as currently wretched at the squad of pinstriped-wearing geriatrics, what with their porous third-base-man and their malcontent backstop! (Perhaps Posada is upset as much by his elephantine ears and Lilliputian chin as his microscopic batting average and low place in the hitting order?)

The Boys from Bean-towne were happy to take advantage of the plum opportunity that was handed to them.

Yukon Youkilis, The Colossus, and even ol' Salty getting in on the act with monstrous circuit clouts that cleared the walls of that gleaming Albert Speer-inspired Stadium with aplomb. Why, Mr. Ortiz was even one measly triple shy of hitting for the proverbial cycle. If only he could have saved that once-yearly occurrence for that occasion!

On the pitching mound, Lester did his job left-handedly, and Paps did his even if his shoelaces did not. And so, into the sporting books a W was inscribed.

And so as well we now look to the future, our heads held high, our eyes on the horizon ahead, confident in one indisputable fact: the Bostons have won precisely as many game as they have lost.

Perhaps Simple Jack Lackey will come down with a mild case of grocer's itch, scrumpox, or other such minor malady, so he'll be forced to ride pine whilst his teammates build on the accomplishment.

All Hail the Adjutant General!

He makes opposing hurlers as comfortable as a lamplighter in a gunpowder factory. His burly frame handles the ash like a Maestro twirling a baton, conducting the pill sky-ward in scorching arcs over the grand stands. He is the Bostons newest hero, and certainly one of the finest swat-artists this Rooter has ever observed: Adrian “The Adjutant General” Gonzalez!

His exploits at the dish would seem unlikely even in the pages of a dime-novel, let alone a certified fact from the base-ball record book: Five full-circuit clouts in the past four contests!

Such production is the result of his uncanny ability to approach each swing like a general plotting a campaign. Note to opposing twirlers: If you have beaten the AG before with high screamers, attempting the same delivery again is a fool’s errand.

Few things in life are ever as fine as advertised. Duffy’s Pure Malt Whiskey and the fried Hamburger steak sandwiches of the Fat Boy roadside tavern come immediately to mind for their consistent ability to exceed expectations and remind us of all that is good on this muddled planet. But now, this Rooter can tally another entry on his list of life’s “sure things”: The Adjutant General’s clouting prowess!

Anger Becomes Him!

An angry General Beckett is an effective General Beckett. The above tintype illustration clearly shows the after-effects of our fearless General's hurling prowess: Gothams stretched on the field, relying on their batterymates to heft their dazed figures to the dug-out.

An efficient thrashing of the New Yorks is the recipe for a fine Saturday evening. Thanks ye to our Hero in Flannel Epaulets, the Commander of the Boston Cadre, the indefatigable Gen. Joshua P. Beckett. Huzzah!

Journey to the end of the night

Zzzzzzzzzz … zzzzz …. [cough] … [snort] … huh, wha?

My apologies, loyal base-ball rooters! It seems I must have drifted off to the land of nod toward the tail end of that long-interrupted and interminably rain-soaked contest in the muddy Fens.

(Whoever could imagine that such ample and flowing whiskers could sprout forth in a mere eight hours?)

But, oh, I was having the most wondrous and frightening dream!

In my slumber, my head was swimming with strange and perplexing imagery.

I dreamt that the Bostons' trio of pennybags owners were mingling with the common man, working the counter at of the Fenway park dough-nut shoppe and dispensing cups of the blackest joe and piping hot cocoa to shivering and saturated crowds!

I dreamt that Fenway's creaky seats echoed gloomily with just a scattered smattering of cheers – mere hundreds of fans, rather than the 37,037 with whom I'd entered the park at 7:05 p.m. that very evening!

And I dreamt I saw Mr. Matsuzaka-san pitching in relief! Preposterous and unprecedented!

What's more, I dreamt that, sleep-deprived and bleary-eyed, he loaded the bases and lost the game for the Bostons at the ungodly hour of three quarters past two o'clock in the morning!

What a despicable night-mare!

Seldom have I been so happy to be awake!

The Littlest Hero!

It is rare these days to see full and bushy moustaches amongst New England's gentlemen. Indeed, the once-lush pushbrooms of Red Stockings Nation have been reduced to a mottled landscape of perturbed follicles.

And for what reason? The answer is quite clear: The opening chapters of the Red Stockings' base-ball season has been a most difficult fortnight for all involved. With defeats piled among a smattering of victories, it is without surprise that most of the region's whiskers have been mercilessly twirled and chewed by anxious Rooters from Mattapan to Madawaska.

O, but the gilded lining of this angry cloud has been revealed! And he has the littlest hands of them all! Friends of the Flannel, our savior has made himself known, and he is Dustin "Lil' Hands" Pedroia!

To be sure, Lil' Hands' swatting average is not the top of the pickle barrel, and his physique is more child-like than man-sized. But look deeper into Lil' Hands' person and you will find a heart that beats more strongly than any assembled cadre of men. Peer into his eyes and you see a wondrous tableau as if gazing through a looking glass at Nirvana itself.

Lil' Hands' guile, courage and unflappable charisma have elevated him to a place of reverence among Rooters and Flannel-Clad Heroes alike.

Take, for example, the events of last eve: Following a poor series of tilts against the often woeful Seattles, Rooters were in their cups with despair. A match against the most vaunted hurler of the young season left many with agitation, indigestion and a general feeling of uneasiness.

Along came Lil' Hands to convince Rooters to spit their whiskers and instead use their piehole for more savory pursuits -- such as shouting and leading the Home Team to victory! This Knight of the Keyboard speaks the truth of Lil' Hands more lyrically than I.

For now, let us be thankful for the bounty that comes in small packages. Huzzah for Lil' Hands!

The picture of comfort!

Update! My concern over "Speed-Boy" Crawford's dismal stickwork reached such heights over the week-end that I slipped a copper to a messenger-boy, with instructions to deliver a bottle of Duffy's to the Fenway club-house attendant.

Affixed to that shiny flagon of sweet brown relief was a brief message about securing a new set of Flannels for Crawford -- preferably ones that had not been tainted by the miasma of failure that once made "High Pockets" Lugo the object of such scorn among Rooters. Message received, and the switch made to a fine set of looser-fitting togs, the Speed-Boy emerged envigorated on Sunday, striking the decisive blow to secure a victory for the Bostons!

He's a new man out there, poised to punish the horsehide and demonize the base-paths with his bag burgling! Meanwhile the nine continued to dominate the Anaheims on Monday evening, breaking up a fine hurling duel with a symphony of clouts in the seventh frame.

Not unnoticed, however, was the shameful Sunday afternoon performance of shaky twirler Jenks, who cost "Knuckles" Wakefield -- the sport's finest Gentleman -- a much deserved "win" for his sparkling deliveries during emergency mound duties. Jenks had apparently chewed his mustache clean off his lip in an attempt to reverse his spate of dismal luck, yet the troubles remain.

March on, mighty Bostons!

Clubby, Check This Man’s Flannels!

Has there been a mix-up in the dressing room? Did the Bostons newly acquired speed-boy Carl Crawford receive a cast-off complement of flannels last donned by the beleagured between-sacker High-Pockets Lugo?

Because to this Rooter’s eyes, Crawford’s pockets are looking mighty high in recent days…mighty high indeed. Correspondingly, his swatting average is lower than a U-Boat in the North Sea.

To-night, Crawford received a full-grown chance to forgo his funk and when he entered the batting-box with the sacks clogged and no “outs” on the scoreboard. Could he muster a four-ply drive? A two- or three bagger? Even an infant bounder?

Sadly, no! Crawford “whiffed” and failed to plate a single run (which, if I had my way, would relegate him to bench-minding duties for at least the next contest).

Check that man’s flannels, I say. Perhaps he’s been hexed by wearing the high-waisted breeches of the long-gone Lugo.

Delivery from the West Coast!

The results from sun-dappled California are here just days after the contests began between the Oaklands and our flannel-clad heroes.

Let me tear the envelope and deliver the goods:

In two tilts, the Red Stockings squandered a surprisingly efficient performance by "Simple Jack" Lackey, falling prey to the Athletics and their shiny white shoes, and took full advantage of effortless twirling by Beanpole Buchholz to even the series at one apiece.

To-night, the Bostons, having traveled the length of the new outpost of fashion and cinema that is California, will acclimate themselves to base-ball in the dry desert conditions of Anaheim.

We may sneak downstairs after mother puts the children to bed and repair to the wireless with a short glass of Duffy's. I am not, however, inclined to root in silence. Give me strength to remain quiet should the infield react to sharply hit ground balls with heavy handed muffs and boners, or should to-night's twirling cause me to chew fretfully on my moustache.

Catch the spirit!

Get a load of these gents in Beantown! Laughing up a storm whilst playing the pinch-and-tickles on the dug-out steps!

And why shouldn't they? On a day when some prefer to prove their physical prowess in a footrace through the avenues and byways of our fair towne, I rather enjoyed the relentless offensive assault taking place in the Fens.

Give our heroes a cheer and a slap. In four tilts, our base-ballers sent the team from America's Hat home with just one "Victory" notched. Our wayward hurler, Matsuzaka-san, proved worthy this day, launching pills that darted this way and that, confounding opposing swatters.

But the sweetest of all meats was the cacophony of ash sticks on horsehide. Clouts rang out from the concourse to the box seats, where industry tycoons and Rooters alike twirled their moustaches in glee instead of fretfully gnawing on their whiskers.

On Jedediah Lowrie! On Yukon Youkilis! On Carlton Q. Crawford, basepath speeder and amateur detective who delights in solving mysteries large and small among the clubhouse clique!

My friends, the urgency of your swatting was unmistakeable: the Boston Red Stockings are again a base-ball team, not a collection of wayward soup kitchen transients who spend their day suckling on government's ample bosom and fashioning home-made tattoo pencils out of old bicycle spokes and writing ink.

Onward!

Post-script: Greetings, Darkman. Make yourself welcome, and fare thee well!

Giddyap!

Now these bean-eating Boston boys are cooking with gas!

Two games in a row! That must be some sort of streak for the record books, by our reckoning!

Friday evening's contest was a galling disappointment, of course. The bumbling and stumbling continued, and yet again it seemed as though there may be no scratching our way out from this slough of despond.

By Saturday, however, one could allow oneself to think that maybe the proverbial worm had turned. General Joshua P. Beckett was indomitable once again. And his fine effort was this time backed up by a more potent swinging of lumber than we've seen of late – most notably by the spry and sprightly short-stop, Jedediah Lowrie, whose hat trick of hits included an impressive circuit clout launched into the seats atop the Green Monster.

Sunday, too, the sluggers parade continued. Why, even banjo hitters such as Jared "Salty" Saltalamacchia and "Speedy" Jacoby Ellsbury were getting in on the act, driving in runs left and right! As I sipped from my foamy mug of Gritty McDuff's ale, it was hard to suppress a small smile of satisfaction.

But indeed, there is much work still to be done. Despite these recent sparks of life, still no team in all of base-ball has won fewer games than the heretofore hapless Bostons.

So now, with sincerest of apologies for the brevity of this post, Chippy shall be hitting the hay early to-night. For game time is early to-morrow! And much is riding on this pre-noon contest!

Because it is that greatest of all holidays, Patriot's Day, when we commemorate the heroic Minutemen of Lexington and Concord packing their muskets with powder and preparing their rout of those Red-coated scoundrels.

With luck, the Olde Towne Team will celebrate by booting those crown-loving Canadians back to the commonwealth with their toque-wearing tails between their legs

Hopefully that fifth victory might be notched into the W column as the thundering foot-falls of thousands of Marathoners descend from Heartbreak Hill into the majesty of Kenmore Square.

The beatings will continue until play improves

It's a simple recipe, what these boys need.

They need pep!

They need vim! And vigor!

They just have to put some spring in their steps!

A bit of the old get-up-and-go, see?

Some fire in their bellies!

Some piss 'n' vinegar!

A bit of spunk is all. Some pluck!

The fans want to see a bit of that old pizazz!

Some zip and some zing and some zest!

And most of all they've got to have moxie!

A Dark Night of Duffy's

The nine have failed to notch another victory since The General's stirring charge against the Gothams.

For several frames, "Nothin' Doin'" Jonny managed to deny the Tampas any trips around the pillows, and Rooters' hearts swelled with each perfectly aimed pill and cloutless "whiff" of the enemies' ash. Then in one chapter a wheel fell off Jonny's trap, and former Hub Hero "Dolty" Damon swatted a run-plating "hit" to tilt the tally in favor of the Floridians.

Now a desultory April rain has delayed this evening's contest, which this reporter confesses he was dreading. "Simple Jack" Lackey has failed to rise above the standards of a factory-league pumpkin-tosser in his recent contests, making him an unlikely candidate to snuff a losing jag. But perhaps an additional day to work with the medicine ball or slather his limbs with liniments from the Orient will prepare him to deliver horsehide with vigor.

Meantime, Rooters warm themselves with Duffy's and wonder when the marching bands and color guards will again parade proudly through the Fens, honored to support a victorious squad.

Sunk!

Base Ball is a simple game. A squad must perform with some degree of aplomb the arts of hurling, swatting, and field-patrolling. Urchins in their alley-ways and sand-lots regularly perform these arts with mirth and glee – and I are say more success than the current nine shaming the history of the Red Stockings by wearing the Hallowed Flannel.

To-night’s contest was marked by hurling of the weakest kind. Abominable, hideous hurling. Hurling that bedevils Rooters’ restorative sleep with night-mares. Hurling that turns a box score into a crime scene.

Seven tallies surrendered by the second chapter! Sixteen “runs” made by the lowly Tampas by the final frame! The Boston’s ’11 campaign, which one evening prior appeared rescusitated by the nifty pill-piloting of our fearless General, is again taking on water.

The cannons did roar!

Like a canny field marshal, massing his troops and advancing on enemy lines with ineluctable puissance.

Like Robin Hood, of shady green Sherwood Forest, letting loose his slender shaft and splitting the arrow in a far yonder tree.

Like a master marksman, imbued with drunken boastfulness, walking 100 paces, turning, leveling his musket and exploding a can of ale into rusty smithereens.

Such are some the stirring similes that leap to mind when one thinks back up on the indubitably magisterial performance of one General Joshua P. Beckett this evening last.

Despite the Bostons' teeth-gnashing inability to move their men along – their baffling proclivity to leave seeming legions more of their teammates languishing on base with each passing inning – Gen. Beckett was unfazed.

He attacked the dastardly pinstripers with guts and guile. He worked with speed and efficiency. And thus, one by one, the Gothamites were dispatched. Down they went flailing, like Icarus tumbling from a sun-streaked sky.

Good show, sir!

Would it be unsporting to ask for more of the same from your Nipponese fellow traveler?!

The bunting was hung by the field box with care...

...In hopes that victory would soon be there.

In the sixth chapter, it is Gotham with six plates, and the Boston Towne Heroes with seven visits to "home".

Dare to dream, fellow rooters?

Extra, Extra: It was no dream! The Heroes have smashed the demon on their collective backs, gouging an all-important notch in the Victory column! Onward, gents!

Night Terrors

There is no moustache left un-chewed on any Rooter from Hartford to Houlton on this chill April evening. No stores of Duffy’s remain in any cupboard.

To-night the Bostons presented such a dismaying pantomime of base-ball that I wonder whether these flannel-clad bumblers steamed into Cleveland in Pullman cars, or clattered into the Cuyohoga city in the shabby wagons of a traveling side-show?

Tho’ there is blame enough to serve each man seconds, I reserve the lion’s share for relief twirler Dennys Reyes. And with his girth-to-grit ratio wildly titled toward the former, he seems poised with a spoon in hand to accept it. The sum total of his deliveries in the sixth chapter: Two “bean” balls and a free pass that placed a Cleveland at each sack! When two of those runners eventually crossed the dish to add to the opponents tally, the contest was lost.

Ninety Feet to Victory

Wipe the week-end's tilts from your memory, Rooters of the Beantown Heroes! To-night, General Joshua P. Beckett will command the foot soldiers of Flannel Company A in their march on Cleveland.

I smell a Victory in the offing. Let the good General deliver his orders with haste, and his horsehides with the precision of a veteran soldier. Imagine the General staring down from his hurling mound, arm cocked like an infantryman's rifle, ready to fire his wadding!

Good General, shoot that wad! Shoot it straight and true!

Unpleasantness! Again!

Jumping Jehoshaphat! Losers once more. And worse this time. In fact, rarely since Heracles was compelled to clean the Augean Stables has such a deluge of excremental fetor been loosed upon this poor world.

Gazing upon box score in the middle innings of the Bostons' Texas-sized trouncing Saturday night, it seemed clear early on that few would come out of this mess of a match-up smelling like the proverbial rose.

Least of all, of course, was John Lackey, who, with his hangdog deameanor and oversized underbite brings to mind the town yokel who fell off the turnip truck.

Old "Simple Jack" was hardly covering himself in glory: 10 hits and nine runs in the span of a mere three-and-two-third frames is not a peformance one would expect or hope for from our newly-slotted Number Two Man.

Be they doubles, triples, solo circuit clouts, or the grandest of slams, Lackey was happy to oblige the Lone Star State crowd with a fireworks show the likes of which may not have been seen since the year 1264, when Empress Dowager Gong Sheng enjoyed a feast held in her honor by her son, Emperor Lizong, during the late Song Dynasty.

It was the sort of spectacle that would have seen those ancient, long-ago Chinese sipping lustily from flagons of firewater. Here at Full Circuit Clout, we felt compelled, of course, to grab for yet more hefty pours of Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey. ("For When You Are Not Looking Well!")

In fairness, truly, Simple Jack himself was not looking well. The flop sweat fell in rivulets as the balls flew far and fast.

All in all, it was a horrorshow of an evening. Not even the second monstrous clout of the young season from The Colossus, nor a flawless inning from hefty new hurler Bobby "Weirdbeard" Jenks could help to put a cheery face on the proceedings.

But neither Rome nor the green fens of Boston Towne were built in a day. And despite the galling disappointments inflicted thus far by this vaunted squad, us Rooters must keep our heads high and our chins held up!

Courage! Onward!

Pain! Torment!

O, the despicable head-aches! The fuzzy tongue of whiskey and ale! The punishing and agonizing pain from a day that began with so much hope and splendor!

Indeed, yester-day was the debut of the Flannel-Clad Heroes from the Hub, ready and willing to take on all comers in 162 tilts from Boston to The City of Angels. Your humble correspondent, Hurdy Chadwick, gathered with several like-minded gentlemen in putting our ears to the wireless and listening, breathlessly, to the exploits of our Gang of Base-Ball Wonders.

The day began gaily, with much mirth and several cup-fulls of tonic and cheer. The mood soured as quickly as the horsehide caromed from the Texans' bats into the arms of their ever-loving rooters. Our starting hurler, Nothin' Doin' Lester, did nothing to prevent clouts from ringing out from seemingly every direction. An added insult was the muff-prone antics of the infield defensemen. Though their flannels clearly were embroidered "BOSTON", it was if they were a band of derelict street urchins who had learned the rules of base-ball just minutes before the nine innings began.

The dreadful missives from the wireless announcer meant one thing: Cups of Duffy's, one after the next! The result: A fitful night's sleep and a day spent in fog, despite the clear blue April skies above.

A luncheon of smoked meats did little to ding the effects of the previous nights' fugue. Alas, we will persevere, and resume our post in front of the wireless for the next tilt. Let us hope it brings us relief, rather than us seeking solace in nerve tonics and ale.

Wagons Ho!

See Wee Willy on his wagon,

Filled with Cask, filled with Flagon.

Follow him to the thorough-fare,

To southern climes, with breezes fair.

Feed the draft horse! Remove the chockings!

They're off to Sunshine with our Red Stockings!

Gentle friends, huzzahs to one and all,

The boys in flannel are here 'til fall.