Full circuit clout

Slipped away

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 01:08:00 +0000

Mr. Chadwick and I regret our lack of correspondence during the recent, brief spate of play-off tilts.

We misplaced our typing devices in the same place the Bostons left their vim, fortitude and resilience. It is possible Mr. Papelbon's hurling ability was hidden in a dark corner there, as well.

Until such time as the Duffy's washes the taste of disgust from my throat, I direct you to the sentiments with which we mourned the end of last year's contesting season.

Requiem for a season

Gather the family, stock the cupboard, lock the doors

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 13:38:00 +0000

Prepare for many hours of anxious moustache twirling. Guard against fatigue. Stay on the fault line of sobriety and decorum. The play-offs are here.

The first pill will be delivered this eve at 9:37 EDT. Godspeed, you Heroes in Flannel!

With a whimper...

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 17:37:00 +0000

So it has finally come to pass: The Bostons advance to the Series of Divisional Champions, where they will contest the right to raise a World Series banner above Fenway's gleaming green battlements.

And yet there is no rejoicing in the McInnes household. Tho' I have spent weeks crossing this nation in clattering steam trains on assignment for my gainful employers, I have glumly followed the seeming evaporation of our heroes' vigor in recent weeks.

Their shameful display of shabby hurling and swatting of late is an insult to the beauties of the game. What they have been playing can barely be termed "base ball."

Something must change before the first tilt against the wily Angels of Anaheim in the Los Angeles region of California: Order double rations of Duffy's for the squad! Coat their athletic supporters with mentholated liniments! Anything to strike a fire under this beleaguered band of bumblers!

The glory awaits, but not for the faint-hearted!

All wet...

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 22:16:00 +0000

Blasted flannel-clad miscreants. The children cry, and Rooters follow suit.

Will this madness cease this evening? I will sit at the tavern and bend an ear to the wireless.

Commence pacing...

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 13:59:00 +0000

Some weeks ago, all seemed lost for the Red Stockings. The New Yorks were pulling away in familiar fashion, and several competitors for the "Wild Card" berth in this year's play-offs were knotted around the Olde Towne Team.

But that was then. Now, the Red Stockings are five games behind the New Yorks, but a whopping seven games ahead of any Wild Card interloper.

One question remains: Can the Red Stockings repeat their home-field success in different environs? Last night's bull-pen miscues give pause to even the heartiest Rooter.

It is getting awfully warm in here!

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 18:19:00 +0000

My, oh my. It seems to be heating up in the vicinity of the Fens. This is an enjoyable development as the mercury takes its final turn southward, into the crisp temps of autumn.

Keep hurling, heroes. Keep swatting, Goliaths. Keep posting victory after victory!

The remainders of a wastrel life

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 14:43:00 +0000

In the far reaches of Maine, school-aged children often pass a lazy fall Saturday by rounding up an adolescent sow, dressing it in herringbone outerwear and leading it to suckle on a fine Burgundy.

In much the same fashion, the White Stockings of Chicago's North Side aimed to dress our once-strong Gen. Joshua Beckett not in the epaulets and gleaming medals of heroism, but in the frilly frocks and lacy petticoats of a betrothed handmaiden. And instead of quaffing flagons of grit and determination, it was as if he was hoisting a dainty cup of chamomile and brushing biscuit crumbs with a finely stitched kerchief.

Indeed, our supposedly fearsome corps leader did nothing but play patsy with the North Side swatters in yesterday's tilt. If one of the opposing hitters had proffered a jumping rope, surely our General would have deigned to skip around the Fens singing school-yard ditties.

What is our General's malady? What keeps him from commanding the pill in the same way that George Washington guided his troops 'cross the Potomac on a cold winter's night?

Never fear, readers. These are among the questions we will strive to answer as we begin the stretch run to the season's end.

Colossal clouts!

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 01:56:00 +0000

Here is the measure of greatness!

Our hero, the Colossus, delivers one four-ply drive to knot the tally in the second frame. Then he repeats his feat of swatting to secure the victory in the final chapter!

Small children stand slack-jawed! Ladies swoon! Opponents cringe and cry! Rooters rejoice!

Come and stay a while, gents!

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 13:50:00 +0000

Well, yes, the quality of base-ball since the All-Star hiatus has been at best lackadaisical, and at worst a Hindenburg-like conflagration of awe-inspiring proportion.

But put simply, we lost two of three matches against the hated rivals from Gotham. That in a nutshell is Boston base-ball in the dog days of August. Win one, lose several. Place aces across the pentagon one night, and find the ash sticks asleep the next two tilts. Proffer vexing deliveries from the hurling mound, and follow that effort with amateurish pill tossing from a variety of relief pitchers.

Indeed, consistency is lacking in the Fens. Does that mean the season is crudded beyond repair? Surely not, dear Rooter! Whilst the Red Stockings aren't likely to hoist the American League East pennant in next year's opening day festivities, there still is a chance of post-season heroics to carryover and complement the bunting-festooned park next April.

Dare to dream, friends! Dare to dream...

Purge this name from the Ages!

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 18:37:00 +0000

If the far future, when my grandchildren ask me to regale them with tales of gallant base-ball heroes from the aughts, let me never speak the name “Wooden Nickel” Penny.

Indeed, last evening’s hurling display -- if one can indeed call that disaster “hurling” – certifies his worth somewhere far below the kindly copper for which he is named.

Let not his girthy visage grace a souvenir tobacco card in your next packet of Old Judge, Mayo Cut Plugs, or Ramly Cigarettes. He deserves no enshrinement.

Keep this paunchy pumpkin-tosser far from the hill in any meaningful contest. He has not the mettle for the task.

Good news, but more dunderheadedness

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 13:53:00 +0000

School-age lads from Point Judith to Presque Isle cheered for the return of Alex "Sure Mitten" Gonzalez, the defensively minded between-sacker that so awed Rooters three seasons ago. Indeed, such a move makes a Rooter feel more optimistic about his team's chances...

...that is, if the Red Stockings' flannel-bearers weren't a load of dunderheaded nincompoops intent on sabotaging each and every tilt with shoddy hurling, ineffectual swatting and an altogether laissez-faire attitude in all facets of the game.

Now, dear readers, forgive my foul and foreign language. But I have thoroughly chewed and twirled my moustache over the week-end series versus the Rangers of Texas. Frustrating, indeed.

Yet, shall we retain some optimism for the season? Daresay, yes, good friends. Yes, indeed.

Fisticuffs!

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 20:53:00 +0000

Yukon Youkilis, the Beard of the Ages, will sit away from action for five tilts thanks to his fury in last night's donnybrook.

I would gladly offer him five days of leisure -- and endless drams of Duffy's -- in bucolic Westbrook, Maine, for his heroism and pluck.

Good show, Yukon!

Tonight, let the Red Stockings continue their rampage.

Back to the future

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 13:13:00 +0000

Fresh from the miasma of despair in the Bronx, the Red Stockings apparently decided to engage in some base-ball play last evening. The final: Bostons 6, Detroits 5.

A "win"!

Indeed, the heroes of Boston-town made offensive hay off of All-Star hurler Edwin "Action" Jackson, notching several full-circuit clouts and at least one base-hit for nearly every member of the starting roster.

And though the bullpen followed the tried-and-true routine of "douse self in kerosene, ignite match, combust self", "Dancin' Jonny" Papelbon emerged from the reserve dugout to nail the match shut.

Best news of all: Those New Yorks, who so tormented the Red Stockings over the week-end, lost a tight nine-framer to division peers Toronto.

Good tidings. Perhaps all is not lost.

Emergency! Disaster! Disaster!

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 13:32:00 +0000

Like the great molasses flood that ended the lives of dozens of Bostonians, the recent events in Rooterville has shook verily to the core the faith of Red Stockings supporters from New Bedford to Bangor.

For six tilts against Eastern League rivals -- the Tampas and the dastardly New Yorks -- our once-vaunted heroes in flannel have appeared as if they are the buffoons at a sideshow carnival, the local lads gathered together to sport against the magically skilled players of the traveling circus.

Where to begin, friends? Perhaps we can broach the subject of the leaky relieving corps, whose propensity for delivering steaming piles of meat to opposing batters has made them more likely to find employment as servers at a North End spaghetti establishment.

Or, perhaps we might discuss the terribly limp noodles that our supposedly fearsome swatters chose to wield instead of their usual racks of ash clouting bats. Again, perhaps our offensively-minded base-ballers would more enjoy a role in the kitchen at said restaurant, choosing whether to fashion their meal into linguini, rotini or even spaghettini!

What about the revelations of The Colossus and his use of various liniments and ointments meant to increase swatting power? Or the discovery that "Lil' Hands" Pedrioa is just a lad of 15 years? Or that Mr. Matsuzaka-san has been sighted frolicking at the far points of Cape Cod rather than deign to palm the horsehide and vex another batsman?

Could it also be the parade of newly-minted Red Stockings treating the turnstiles of Fenway Park into a revolving door of mediocre talent? Whether from the enclaves of Providence and Portland or the confines of some other ball-club, men have continued to stream to the Fens to fill the ranks emptied by injured Red Stockings.

Indeed, when the Beard of the Ages, Yukon Kevin Youkilis, is reduced to patrolling the left outfield for games at a time, it is a signal of desperation from the franchise brain-trust.

The upshot: It is a veritable disaster of the highest order when the Bostons are reduced to a bench of simpering ninnies at the hands of our rivals.

My advice to our erstwhile heroes: Wipe away the tears and let us not hear your whimpers. Shoulder the bats like men, and toe the mounding rubber with authority. Take charge of your futures, men.

If you cannot, all will be lost.

A rotten surprise!

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 18:00:00 +0000

As I was enjoying a summer’s eve in our fine burg of Portland, I joined my esteemed colleague Hurdy Chadwick for a cool, restorative ale at a local tavern. Being a thoroughly modern establishment (which welcomed ladies alongside gentlemen for refreshment!), the saloon featured a state-of-the-art wireless broadcasting the exploits of our beloved Red Stockings.

Upon finishing our beverages and departing for a performance by a noted chanteuse, we made note of the contest’s status – 2 “runs” accumulated by the Bostons with few chapters remaining to be played! Huzzah!

After many hours of song, I returned to my home expecting a victory in the Bostons' ledgerbook. Shockingly, my home wireless was still transmitting a contest in progress, which was quickly ended (to the Bostons' detriment) by a four-ply-drive from the upstart Tampas!

Indigestion commenced, ruining an otherwise fine evening.

Once again, our relief hurlers bear the responsibility. I have taken to calling our bull-pen by a new name: The tinderbox.

A race to the finish!

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 20:07:00 +0000

Last week, as I was sunning my paleness and nursing ale after ale on a remote Maine island, I had little knowledge as to the coup young Theodore Epstein was cooking up in his Fenway office. He most certainly wore his Number 2 to a nub scratching out various "trading" scenarios, and reportedly considered offering J.D. "Old Aches and Pains" Drew to the Padres of San Diego for a barrel of sorghum and a case of hermetically sealed Zwieback toast.

But fate intervened and, when the dust settled, the Red Stockings were among the few trade deadline victors in all of base-ball. Coming to Boston was Victor "Loose Limbs" Martinez, the crowd-pleasing, switch-swatting catcher-cum-first-sacker that has so energized the Indians of the Ohios. Since joining the Heroes in Red, Loose Limbs has performed admirably, engendering plaudits from the men Rooters and swoons from the ladies in attendance at the ballpark.

Above all, it seems Loose Limbs also has provided a much-needed spark in the clouting department, as Boston's offensive ensemble has begun swatting with the urgency of a man trapped in a gibbon cage.

Meanwhile, it is good-bye to Justin Masterson, the gangly deliveryman who has showed much promise on the mounding in his short time with the Major League Club. Alas, we hardly knew ya, Ol' Master-tone! Cheers to your future hurling exploits in your home state, and may you forget your refined pretzel delivery upon next facing our heroes of the Fens!

Other assorted pieces of the dug-out puzzle were put into place, including a farewell to Mr. Adam LaRoche, and a huzzah to Casey Kotchman, yet another able-bodied first sacker. (Perhaps Mr. Epstein believes that the key to championing is a roster replete with first sackers, whose lithe frames and dextrous mittens may offer hints of excellence in other areas of fielding?)

Today begins a difficult stretch for the Bostons, as the face a two-tilt set with the Champs from Tampa, and a four-gamer with the hated Yankees of the Bronx. Indeed, sitting one-two-three atop the American League, the Yankees, Red Stockings and Tampas are snuggling together for what is certain to be a clever finish to the regular season. August is early, but the nip of the September air is soon to be felt among our flannel-clad heroes.

Friends, this is when base-ball matters. This is when prowess with the pill and the ash stick separates he-men from street lads. This is for the whole kazoo, chums!

Let us be victorious!

Gentlemen, show your cards!

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 18:33:00 +0000

While rooters across New England chew their moustaches clean off their lips, Red Stockings General Manager Theo "Boy Wonder" Epstein is waving cigar smoke from his visage, reading ticker-tapes, dispatching messenger boys and cranking his telephone device in an effort to secure new troops for the remaining months of the 2009 base ball campaign.

Scuttlebutt is flying faster than an aeroplane as the clock marches inexorably toward the 4:00 trading deadline. When the hour tolls, who will remain, who will depart, and who will join the squad?

Alas, I am moments from boarding a steamer-ferry for a summer cottage colony on an island in Casco Bay! I hope to receive a strong enough wireless signal to remain current on the latest news, but if nothing else, I will rely on the daily broadsheets and tabloids to recount the results during the week-end.

Until then, keep a tight hold on the Duffy's and remain faithful!

Yrs.

Stuffy McInnes

...And then the relief hurlers took the pill

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 15:32:00 +0000

The smoke was visible from Marshfield to Muscongus Bay

When the final tally of the contesting season is calculated, the acrid stench of last evening's conflagration may plague Rooters' olfactory system throughout the winter.

The General leads, we can do naught but follow!

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 21:07:00 +0000

Watching our Gen. Joshua P. Beckett command the pill is like downing a flagon of courage alongside a huge snifter of grit!

His pretzel delivery stymied the Oaklands on a hot July evening, and his curses and jeers from the hilltop charged his compatriots to display a similar absence of mercy with their ash clouts! When the line must hold, when the troops must not break, the General is the man we need.

Let us admire this statistic: The General has recorded 7 victories and zero defeats when hurling after a team “loss.”

Send The Elder out to pasture

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 18:38:00 +0000

Rooters greeted the arrival of John “The Elder” Smoltz to the Boston club with no shortage of excitement in the cold months of the lushing season. This hall-of-fame hurler (rapturous Rooters argued) would surely propel the Local Nine to victory in the all-important month of October, when base-ball anoints its champion!

Alas, a team wishing to prevail in October must at a minimum secure enough victories to join the limited ranks of base-ball’s finest squads. And to-date, The Elder is looking to be more of a hindrance to that quest than a hero.

The Red Stockings have fallen in five of the six contests in which Smoltz twirled the first frame. After each defeat, the recovering hurler assured Rooters that he was working back into top form, and would indeed command the pill with the surety of an “Ace.”

And then, yester-day, he squared against the flighty bird-men of Baltimore. Instead of securing the “sweep,” Smoltz allowed the Baltimores to bat freely and with great force. Base-runners advanced about the diamond like a carnival whirligig. The result: Six “runs” accumulated, and the coffin lid nailed firmly shut.

The calendar stands in the final week of July! The gold-plated aggregation of ringers in New York have begun earning their Steinbrenner doubloons and have overtaken the limping Red Sox in the divisional standings! The speedy yannigans of the Tampa squad are showing fine mettle as well!

There is simply no slack left in the line. A mere game or two difference in the win/loss ledger will likely determine whether the Bostons are clouting and twirling on our behalf through the crisp autumn days, or whether the green walls of Fenway fall silent until spring.

The thought of that silence has me reaching for an extra dram of Duffy’s these evenings. The Bostons cannot allow the Elder to continue his rehabilitation at the expense of the team’s standings. Each time he mounts the hurling mound, it is as if he is waving a white flag rather than dazzling bats-men with a well-located pill.

It is time to replace him in the rotation with another hurler who at least affords an opportunity for victory. Shall it be a “trade” between organizations? Or is the yannigan Buchholz ready to twirl every fifth day? Either! Both! Anything!

The Stockings continue to slide!

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 17:13:00 +0000

Not even a cloud of dust from a muffed bag-burgling can obscure the fact that the Red Stockings are in the midst of a base-ball cataclysm. For even those upstarts from the Tejas Territories hosted the Red Stockings and kept the Boston heroes from tallying more than a small child's handful of aces on the board.

Back at the emerald-hued confines of the Fens is sure to do a body good beginning to-morrow eve, as the Home Towners take on the Birds from Baltimore. And in the dug-out there are sure to be some new faces, with General Manager Theodore "Boy Wonder" Epstein coming out aces in a series of backroom shenanigans with two National League squads.

And alas, it is good-bye to our stone-fisted between sacker, Mr. Julio "High Pockets" Lugo. May your britches always be uncommonly hitched upon your lithe frame, and let the breezy winds of St. Louis turn your stern countenance into one of mirth and child-like wonder.

Beat that lumbago, Knuckles!

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 14:52:00 +0000

What a malady to befall our tricky hurler, Knuckles Wakefield! A sciatica or lumbago is no trivial matter, and it seems our heroic victory-earner is in line for some rest and relaxation away from the ball-park.

In his stead will be Clay "Beanpole" Buchholz, who has dazzled at the minor league level, and is eager to regain his professional form on the carefully manicured diamonds of the Major Leagues. All eyes will be on his pill tossing this eve.

Godspeed, Knuckles, and Godspeed Beanpole!

A tantrum without base-ball!

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 14:50:00 +0000

The All-Star clouting contest of Monday night dragged on longer than a Sunday sermon at the fundamentalist church, and the All-Star contest itself was an exercise in mock excitement. Indeed, the match had its points of interest, but what bragging rights does a Rooter have if his league is the victor? Shall I telegram a friend from Atlanta, sending my condolences that his team has the misfortune of being part of a league that regularly sucks eggs?

That collection of vaunted heroes in flannel that assembled in fair St. Louis on Tuesday evening had it's own aura and mystique, but it did nothing to rival the excitement a Rooter feels when his Red Stockinged heroes are led from the stadium tunnels to the emerald expanse of Fenway Park. I am ready for victories to land in the "win" column, and for each hurled pill and ash clout to be marked on scorecards in gossamer teardrops. Let it be so, good friends!

Alas, one more eve of waiting. Perhaps to-night I will stoke up the charcoal and prepare a supper of seared sausage and cold ale whilst I draw portraits from memory of the faces of each Boston hero, from the aquiline nose of Jason "The Argonaut" Bay to the devious and impish grin of Dustin "Lil' Hands" Pedrioa. But come tomorrow, I will put my ink wells in a drawer and store my sketch pads out of harms' way.

For tomorrow, base-ball is back.

In the woods, the Rooters cheered!

noreply@blogger.com (Hurdy Chadwick) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 17:08:00 +0000

The above photo-types were snapped this week-end in Winthrop, Maine, at a sylvan site on Little Narrows Pond where Stuffy, Hurdy and an assorted band of miscreants gathered to raise glass after glass to the Topsham Ham Fighters, that talented band of pond-hockey enthusiasts of which we all belong.

On Friday evening, a-fore the campsite was thronging with various ladies and family members intent on swimming and carrying on, the men dug holes, pondered glasses of Duffy's and tossed metal washers in an ingenious game dubbed "O'Connor". (It is most certainly a regional game, perhaps a variation on the Midwesterner's popular game of "Cornelius".)

But as we doled out generous drams of Duffy's and punctured several canisters of ale, we also bent our collective ear to the traveling wireless, which L.A. Gray, captain of the Ham Fighters, had carted down to the waterfront after fashioning a block-and-tackle system from several stout fir poles and hand-wound roping.

We listened intently as Jonathan "Nothin' Doin" Lester twirled a glorious set of ace-less frames, and engaged in rousing choruses of cheers as Dustin "Lil' Hands" Pedroia belted a winning two-sacker in the eighth frame.

The following evening, we sat quietly by the fire-light, the Duffy's having left its mark on our now-fragile constitutions, and listened as the Red Stockings see-sawed with the visiting Kansas City. The visiting yannigans scratched ace after ace despite the ash sticks of the home team supplying much early clouting and plating of lads. Indeed, it was as if the Red Sox hurling corps had taken an early leave and left the pill to a gaggle of fresh-faced pennant-hangers from the nearby colleges. In the end, our moustache-chewing was not required, as the Bostons regained their menacing stance at the home pentagon. Another win for the heroes in Red and Blue!

And Sunday, after a morning of sweeping pine needles from our britches and trucking southward to home, I again settled in for a hurling demonstration from the Good Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, whose pill tossing set the gold standard among pretzel men around the league. The ale was cold, the camaraderie excellent, and the tavern most welcoming.

From the woods to Westbrook, a weekend to recall when the snow begins to fly and I replace my cotton duvet with a Pendleton blanket. Summer, I love thee.

Will no one answer the call?

noreply@blogger.com (Stuffy McInnes) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 16:12:00 +0000

Responsibility for last-evening's debacle falls squarely on the shoulders of our once-reliable corps of relief hurlers.

When Skipper Francona operates his dug-out telephone device and the corresponding station in the bull-pen emits its feeble tinkle, is there no man able to answer the call in reliable fashion? The voice crackling over the wires makes a simple request: Deliver the pill to the awaiting backstop in a manner that confounds opposing bats-men, and record "outs" in the game ledger!

Instead, Rooters are treated to a procession of ineptitude not seen since Mike "Old Dog" Remlinger limped out of the 'Pen in aught-five!

These demonstrations of swatting-practice twirling must end at once!