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!
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