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?!
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