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.
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