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?