Saturday, April 2, 2011

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.

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