Full circuit clout

Sweet relief!

2011-08-10T10:32:00.002-04:00

The week-end's tilts were fraught with suspense. To be sure, not a moustache in New England was left dry by nights' ends, and pints of Duffy's littered the gutters from Fall River to Fort Kent. When the dust settled and Monday broke like a damp fevering, it was the Heroes of the Fens ahead of Gotham's high-priced dilettantes by one match on the season. A narrow margin, but a favorable margin none-the-less!

But so peculiar is the work that does his turning: The Red Stockings are laying waste to those Nordic Minnesotans -- with their aw-shucks demeanors, farm-bred musculatures and Lutheran work ethics -- while the Gothams are experiencing fissures in even their most stout ramparts. To wit: Crafty veteran Mariano "El Fruitbat" Rivera, King of the K, Master of the Cutter, appears to be losing his campaign against Father Time, El Padre de los Niños y la Felicidad.

I, for one, say a hearty Huzzah to the fine work of El Padre, and His own crafty veteran abilities. But this is not the time for gloating: Instead, let us cheer the Heroes of Olde Towne and embrace the two-dozen-plus-one that wear the Boston Flannel day in and day out.

May the season continue apace!

Base Ball Returns -- Not a Moment Too Soon!

2011-07-15T14:20:00.004-04:00

Rooters, cease chewing your mustaches and grab your megaphones, drums and cornets! Base Ball contests resume to-night, with the Bostons meeting the "Rays" of Tampa.

Suffering through the annual mid-season pause routinely brings the otherwise fit to the brink of nervous exhaustion. How else to explain the tale of this poor gent, which I picked up from the news wires. Surely a man in his right mind would never complain about a banquet of sausages!

No, these actions betray the signs of a Rooter longing for a finely twirled tilt:

Sausage Gets on the Nerves

CHICAGO — Linked sausage, long drawn out, served for breakfast, dinner, supper and between meals, drove Charles Jensen from his home at 3629 Harper avenue. It got on his nerves.

Liverwurst, German sausage, schnapps and bologna is poor diet for a steamfitter who earns $35 a week and wants steak once in a while. It's bad for the nerves.

Charles told Municipal Judge Torrlson in the court of domestic relations the other day that he had run away from sausage, his wife and six children.

"She gave me bologna for breakfast, llverwurst for dinner and German sausage for supper," he said "Once in a while she changed the diet with frankfurters and schnapps. I want steak once in a while.

"Honest, judge, it got so bad that every time I heard a dog bark I could smell dinner cooking. I can't work on a delicatessen diet of sausage all the time. I earn $35 a week and want steak."

"It isn't sausage. It's another woman," declared Mrs. Jensen. "He ran away from me four months ago and went to another woman somewhere on the Pacific coast. He liked sausage all right until he got 'moony' over the other woman. Sausage may not be good for married men who love other women."

"Sausage or woman — It doesn't matter," said Judge Torrison. It's just a plain case of nerves. You've looked at each other so long across plates of weinerwurst that you've got on each other's nerves. Cut out the sausage once in a while and you will get along all right. Better read a book on the control of the nerves."

Judge Torrison ordered Jensen to pay his wife $12 a week.

Derbies? I'm More of a Boater Man

2011-07-12T00:07:00.004-04:00

Loyal readers may recall my chagrin at the arrival of the annual Four-Ply-Drive Derby.

My opinion has not changed on this sweltering July evening, even tho’ our home-town hero "The Colossus" captained the American League squad chosen to whange away at the dew drops delivered by their hand-picked hurling partners.

No, I would prefer to get this mid-season pause behind us “toot sweet,” as the vaudeville joke-slingers say.

July Skyrockets!

2011-07-08T11:36:00.001-04:00

30,000 perplexed Rooters rushed home from Fenway Park yester-day evening to check the date on their wall calendars. Did we not, as a nation, just complete our Independence Day celebrations, or was Father Time somehow turned about to revisit the Festival of the 4th?

Their bafflement was understandable, given the pyrotechnic spectacle performed by the Boston bats-men: A sextet of screamers!

Hapless Oriole hurlers held the Bostons’ clouting prowess much too cheaply, as evidenced by the repeated launching of the sphere into the July night sky. Hub-area reflexologists will undoubtedly be overwhelmed to-day with patients seeking relief from the crick-necks developed after watching six pills arc over the stadium fences!

Yet no Rooter will complain for his discomfort, as the offensive explosion propelled the Red Stockings to the pinnacle of the Eastern Division standings. Let us enjoy this lofty perch a while, gents!

The Blasted Doldrums!

2011-06-30T11:00:00.003-04:00

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!

2011-06-27T10:45:00.000-04:00

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!

2011-06-12T22:14:00.006-04:00

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?

Timber!

2011-05-25T22:46:00.002-04:00

Heavens to Murgatroyd! I haven't witnessed a sustained swinging of lumber like that since the failed gold rushers of '49 took to felling the giant redwoods of Humboldt County!

Why, the hurlers of the Lake Erie Tribe had nary a chance in the face of such a potent onslaught of batsmanship! They were akin to an unlucky spelunker, standing afore a darkened cave, from which flew thousands upon thousands of rousted bats!

Cleveland soft-tosser Mitch "Pitch Don't Belly Itch" Talbot was almost certainly not expecting his afternoon to play out as it did. Nor, in truth, was your humble scribe!

A dozen hits, and eight earned runs in merely three innings! Seven of those in just the first frame!

A circuit clout from Lil' Hands Petey! Followed close on by a single! And another single! An error! A sacrificial fly ball! A single! Yet another single! Meanwhile, the men moved round the bases in a steady and joy-making counter-clockwise motion, like the gaily painted ponies of a child's carousel toy.

The hits came hard and fast. And some of them went far!

Salty! Pow! The Colossus! Kaboom!

Why, even speedy but scuffling Carl Crawford decided to take advantage of these advantageous circumstances! He had his biggest red letter day in his Red Sox flannels so far, going a perfect four-for-four with two doubles, a circuit clout, three runs scored and two runs-batted-in!

By the time five further runs were pasted to the scoreboard in the sixth, the result of this contest was more than preordained. The boys from Boston had shown these would-be world-beaters who, in truth, is boss.

Such an outburst was hardly needed of, course, with the steady left hand of Jonathan "Nothin' Doin" Lester, ever in control as he trundled forth to his best-in-baseball seventh win!

It seems that day-time base-ball suits the Bostons very well indeed. So let's be thankful that tomorrow's match is similarly to be played at a post-meridiem hour.

May the afternoon sun continue to shine on the local nine!

The Fenway Phantom

2011-05-20T10:33:00.005-04:00

Rooters: I have seen a ghost!

In truth, I’m haunted by this spirit at least four times each night, when an apparition formerly known as “Ol’ Aches and Pains” Drew materializes in the batting box.

How else can one explain the inconsequence with which Ol’ Aches and Pains swings his stick? Ectoplasm has no mass, and without mass there is no kinetic energy to transfer from pine to pill.

Instead, an astral body wearing the Number 7 Flannels glides silently into a swatting stance for each turn at the dish and hovers there in the ether. When he chooses to wave his lumber we hear not the crack of a crisply-struck “hit”, but a feeble sigh from the spiritual realm.

Madame Blavatsky herself could not conjure a more astonishing demonstration of the “other side.” But I, for one, am tired of this spook-act, and would greatly prefer that Ol’ Aches and Pains returns to his corporeal form and applies the physical molecules of wood to horsehide.

Not half bad!

2011-05-16T17:31:00.005-04:00

Happy days are here again! The skies above are clear again! So let's sing a song of cheer again! Happy days are here ag-aaaaaaaa-iiiii-n.

Er, scratch that second one, on second thought. These cold and gray skies look like they've got plans to unpack their bags and stay for a spell.

But that's just A-OK anyway, see?! Because the boys of summer are back! Back at a .500 clip for the first time since that snowy April Fool's Day that sometimes seems so long ago.

The glass if half full! The future looks sunny once more!

For weeks, the quest to finally notch as many victories as losses seemed a Sisyphean struggle. Each time the Bostons were one game away from that milestone of mediocrity, they'd spit the bit, and so find themselves two games back again.

But not this week-end! Not when faced with a team as currently wretched at the squad of pinstriped-wearing geriatrics, what with their porous third-base-man and their malcontent backstop! (Perhaps Posada is upset as much by his elephantine ears and Lilliputian chin as his microscopic batting average and low place in the hitting order?)

The Boys from Bean-towne were happy to take advantage of the plum opportunity that was handed to them.

Yukon Youkilis, The Colossus, and even ol' Salty getting in on the act with monstrous circuit clouts that cleared the walls of that gleaming Albert Speer-inspired Stadium with aplomb. Why, Mr. Ortiz was even one measly triple shy of hitting for the proverbial cycle. If only he could have saved that once-yearly occurrence for that occasion!

On the pitching mound, Lester did his job left-handedly, and Paps did his even if his shoelaces did not. And so, into the sporting books a W was inscribed.

And so as well we now look to the future, our heads held high, our eyes on the horizon ahead, confident in one indisputable fact: the Bostons have won precisely as many game as they have lost.

Perhaps Simple Jack Lackey will come down with a mild case of grocer's itch, scrumpox, or other such minor malady, so he'll be forced to ride pine whilst his teammates build on the accomplishment.

All Hail the Adjutant General!

2011-05-15T11:37:00.005-04:00

He makes opposing hurlers as comfortable as a lamplighter in a gunpowder factory. His burly frame handles the ash like a Maestro twirling a baton, conducting the pill sky-ward in scorching arcs over the grand stands. He is the Bostons newest hero, and certainly one of the finest swat-artists this Rooter has ever observed: Adrian “The Adjutant General” Gonzalez!

His exploits at the dish would seem unlikely even in the pages of a dime-novel, let alone a certified fact from the base-ball record book: Five full-circuit clouts in the past four contests!

Such production is the result of his uncanny ability to approach each swing like a general plotting a campaign. Note to opposing twirlers: If you have beaten the AG before with high screamers, attempting the same delivery again is a fool’s errand.

Few things in life are ever as fine as advertised. Duffy’s Pure Malt Whiskey and the fried Hamburger steak sandwiches of the Fat Boy roadside tavern come immediately to mind for their consistent ability to exceed expectations and remind us of all that is good on this muddled planet. But now, this Rooter can tally another entry on his list of life’s “sure things”: The Adjutant General’s clouting prowess!

Anger Becomes Him!

2011-05-15T10:18:00.001-04:00

An angry General Beckett is an effective General Beckett. The above tintype illustration clearly shows the after-effects of our fearless General's hurling prowess: Gothams stretched on the field, relying on their batterymates to heft their dazed figures to the dug-out.

An efficient thrashing of the New Yorks is the recipe for a fine Saturday evening. Thanks ye to our Hero in Flannel Epaulets, the Commander of the Boston Cadre, the indefatigable Gen. Joshua P. Beckett. Huzzah!

Journey to the end of the night

2011-05-05T13:51:00.004-04:00

Zzzzzzzzzz … zzzzz …. [cough] … [snort] … huh, wha?

My apologies, loyal base-ball rooters! It seems I must have drifted off to the land of nod toward the tail end of that long-interrupted and interminably rain-soaked contest in the muddy Fens.

(Whoever could imagine that such ample and flowing whiskers could sprout forth in a mere eight hours?)

But, oh, I was having the most wondrous and frightening dream!

In my slumber, my head was swimming with strange and perplexing imagery.

I dreamt that the Bostons' trio of pennybags owners were mingling with the common man, working the counter at of the Fenway park dough-nut shoppe and dispensing cups of the blackest joe and piping hot cocoa to shivering and saturated crowds!

I dreamt that Fenway's creaky seats echoed gloomily with just a scattered smattering of cheers – mere hundreds of fans, rather than the 37,037 with whom I'd entered the park at 7:05 p.m. that very evening!

And I dreamt I saw Mr. Matsuzaka-san pitching in relief! Preposterous and unprecedented!

What's more, I dreamt that, sleep-deprived and bleary-eyed, he loaded the bases and lost the game for the Bostons at the ungodly hour of three quarters past two o'clock in the morning!

What a despicable night-mare!

Seldom have I been so happy to be awake!

The Littlest Hero!

2011-05-03T11:44:00.001-04:00

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!

The picture of comfort!

2011-05-03T10:40:00.004-04:00

Update! My concern over "Speed-Boy" Crawford's dismal stickwork reached such heights over the week-end that I slipped a copper to a messenger-boy, with instructions to deliver a bottle of Duffy's to the Fenway club-house attendant.

Affixed to that shiny flagon of sweet brown relief was a brief message about securing a new set of Flannels for Crawford -- preferably ones that had not been tainted by the miasma of failure that once made "High Pockets" Lugo the object of such scorn among Rooters. Message received, and the switch made to a fine set of looser-fitting togs, the Speed-Boy emerged envigorated on Sunday, striking the decisive blow to secure a victory for the Bostons!

He's a new man out there, poised to punish the horsehide and demonize the base-paths with his bag burgling! Meanwhile the nine continued to dominate the Anaheims on Monday evening, breaking up a fine hurling duel with a symphony of clouts in the seventh frame.

Not unnoticed, however, was the shameful Sunday afternoon performance of shaky twirler Jenks, who cost "Knuckles" Wakefield -- the sport's finest Gentleman -- a much deserved "win" for his sparkling deliveries during emergency mound duties. Jenks had apparently chewed his mustache clean off his lip in an attempt to reverse his spate of dismal luck, yet the troubles remain.

March on, mighty Bostons!

Clubby, Check This Man’s Flannels!

2011-04-28T22:25:00.001-04:00

Has there been a mix-up in the dressing room? Did the Bostons newly acquired speed-boy Carl Crawford receive a cast-off complement of flannels last donned by the beleagured between-sacker High-Pockets Lugo?

Because to this Rooter’s eyes, Crawford’s pockets are looking mighty high in recent days…mighty high indeed. Correspondingly, his swatting average is lower than a U-Boat in the North Sea.

To-night, Crawford received a full-grown chance to forgo his funk and when he entered the batting-box with the sacks clogged and no “outs” on the scoreboard. Could he muster a four-ply drive? A two- or three bagger? Even an infant bounder?

Sadly, no! Crawford “whiffed” and failed to plate a single run (which, if I had my way, would relegate him to bench-minding duties for at least the next contest).

Check that man’s flannels, I say. Perhaps he’s been hexed by wearing the high-waisted breeches of the long-gone Lugo.

Delivery from the West Coast!

2011-04-21T15:31:00.000-04:00

The results from sun-dappled California are here just days after the contests began between the Oaklands and our flannel-clad heroes.

Let me tear the envelope and deliver the goods:

In two tilts, the Red Stockings squandered a surprisingly efficient performance by "Simple Jack" Lackey, falling prey to the Athletics and their shiny white shoes, and took full advantage of effortless twirling by Beanpole Buchholz to even the series at one apiece.

To-night, the Bostons, having traveled the length of the new outpost of fashion and cinema that is California, will acclimate themselves to base-ball in the dry desert conditions of Anaheim.

We may sneak downstairs after mother puts the children to bed and repair to the wireless with a short glass of Duffy's. I am not, however, inclined to root in silence. Give me strength to remain quiet should the infield react to sharply hit ground balls with heavy handed muffs and boners, or should to-night's twirling cause me to chew fretfully on my moustache.

Catch the spirit!

2011-04-18T17:04:00.001-04:00

Get a load of these gents in Beantown! Laughing up a storm whilst playing the pinch-and-tickles on the dug-out steps!

And why shouldn't they? On a day when some prefer to prove their physical prowess in a footrace through the avenues and byways of our fair towne, I rather enjoyed the relentless offensive assault taking place in the Fens.

Give our heroes a cheer and a slap. In four tilts, our base-ballers sent the team from America's Hat home with just one "Victory" notched. Our wayward hurler, Matsuzaka-san, proved worthy this day, launching pills that darted this way and that, confounding opposing swatters.

But the sweetest of all meats was the cacophony of ash sticks on horsehide. Clouts rang out from the concourse to the box seats, where industry tycoons and Rooters alike twirled their moustaches in glee instead of fretfully gnawing on their whiskers.

On Jedediah Lowrie! On Yukon Youkilis! On Carlton Q. Crawford, basepath speeder and amateur detective who delights in solving mysteries large and small among the clubhouse clique!

My friends, the urgency of your swatting was unmistakeable: the Boston Red Stockings are again a base-ball team, not a collection of wayward soup kitchen transients who spend their day suckling on government's ample bosom and fashioning home-made tattoo pencils out of old bicycle spokes and writing ink.

Onward!

Post-script: Greetings, Darkman. Make yourself welcome, and fare thee well!

Giddyap!

2011-04-17T20:18:00.003-04:00

Now these bean-eating Boston boys are cooking with gas!

Two games in a row! That must be some sort of streak for the record books, by our reckoning!

Friday evening's contest was a galling disappointment, of course. The bumbling and stumbling continued, and yet again it seemed as though there may be no scratching our way out from this slough of despond.

By Saturday, however, one could allow oneself to think that maybe the proverbial worm had turned. General Joshua P. Beckett was indomitable once again. And his fine effort was this time backed up by a more potent swinging of lumber than we've seen of late – most notably by the spry and sprightly short-stop, Jedediah Lowrie, whose hat trick of hits included an impressive circuit clout launched into the seats atop the Green Monster.

Sunday, too, the sluggers parade continued. Why, even banjo hitters such as Jared "Salty" Saltalamacchia and "Speedy" Jacoby Ellsbury were getting in on the act, driving in runs left and right! As I sipped from my foamy mug of Gritty McDuff's ale, it was hard to suppress a small smile of satisfaction.

But indeed, there is much work still to be done. Despite these recent sparks of life, still no team in all of base-ball has won fewer games than the heretofore hapless Bostons.

So now, with sincerest of apologies for the brevity of this post, Chippy shall be hitting the hay early to-night. For game time is early to-morrow! And much is riding on this pre-noon contest!

Because it is that greatest of all holidays, Patriot's Day, when we commemorate the heroic Minutemen of Lexington and Concord packing their muskets with powder and preparing their rout of those Red-coated scoundrels.

With luck, the Olde Towne Team will celebrate by booting those crown-loving Canadians back to the commonwealth with their toque-wearing tails between their legs

Hopefully that fifth victory might be notched into the W column as the thundering foot-falls of thousands of Marathoners descend from Heartbreak Hill into the majesty of Kenmore Square.

The beatings will continue until play improves

2011-04-15T11:02:00.002-04:00

It's a simple recipe, what these boys need.

They need pep!

They need vim! And vigor!

They just have to put some spring in their steps!

A bit of the old get-up-and-go, see?

Some fire in their bellies!

Some piss 'n' vinegar!

A bit of spunk is all. Some pluck!

The fans want to see a bit of that old pizazz!

Some zip and some zing and some zest!

And most of all they've got to have moxie!

A Dark Night of Duffy's

2011-04-13T23:25:00.004-04:00

The nine have failed to notch another victory since The General's stirring charge against the Gothams.

For several frames, "Nothin' Doin'" Jonny managed to deny the Tampas any trips around the pillows, and Rooters' hearts swelled with each perfectly aimed pill and cloutless "whiff" of the enemies' ash. Then in one chapter a wheel fell off Jonny's trap, and former Hub Hero "Dolty" Damon swatted a run-plating "hit" to tilt the tally in favor of the Floridians.

Now a desultory April rain has delayed this evening's contest, which this reporter confesses he was dreading. "Simple Jack" Lackey has failed to rise above the standards of a factory-league pumpkin-tosser in his recent contests, making him an unlikely candidate to snuff a losing jag. But perhaps an additional day to work with the medicine ball or slather his limbs with liniments from the Orient will prepare him to deliver horsehide with vigor.

Meantime, Rooters warm themselves with Duffy's and wonder when the marching bands and color guards will again parade proudly through the Fens, honored to support a victorious squad.

Sunk!

2011-04-11T23:04:00.004-04:00

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.

The cannons did roar!

2011-04-11T18:57:00.000-04:00

Like a canny field marshal, massing his troops and advancing on enemy lines with ineluctable puissance.

Like Robin Hood, of shady green Sherwood Forest, letting loose his slender shaft and splitting the arrow in a far yonder tree.

Like a master marksman, imbued with drunken boastfulness, walking 100 paces, turning, leveling his musket and exploding a can of ale into rusty smithereens.

Such are some the stirring similes that leap to mind when one thinks back up on the indubitably magisterial performance of one General Joshua P. Beckett this evening last.

Despite the Bostons' teeth-gnashing inability to move their men along – their baffling proclivity to leave seeming legions more of their teammates languishing on base with each passing inning – Gen. Beckett was unfazed.

He attacked the dastardly pinstripers with guts and guile. He worked with speed and efficiency. And thus, one by one, the Gothamites were dispatched. Down they went flailing, like Icarus tumbling from a sun-streaked sky.

Good show, sir!

Would it be unsporting to ask for more of the same from your Nipponese fellow traveler?!

The bunting was hung by the field box with care...

2011-04-08T16:09:00.001-04:00

...In hopes that victory would soon be there.

In the sixth chapter, it is Gotham with six plates, and the Boston Towne Heroes with seven visits to "home".

Dare to dream, fellow rooters?

Extra, Extra: It was no dream! The Heroes have smashed the demon on their collective backs, gouging an all-important notch in the Victory column! Onward, gents!

Night Terrors

2011-04-07T00:20:00.003-04:00

There is no moustache left un-chewed on any Rooter from Hartford to Houlton on this chill April evening. No stores of Duffy’s remain in any cupboard.

To-night the Bostons presented such a dismaying pantomime of base-ball that I wonder whether these flannel-clad bumblers steamed into Cleveland in Pullman cars, or clattered into the Cuyohoga city in the shabby wagons of a traveling side-show?

Tho’ there is blame enough to serve each man seconds, I reserve the lion’s share for relief twirler Dennys Reyes. And with his girth-to-grit ratio wildly titled toward the former, he seems poised with a spoon in hand to accept it. The sum total of his deliveries in the sixth chapter: Two “bean” balls and a free pass that placed a Cleveland at each sack! When two of those runners eventually crossed the dish to add to the opponents tally, the contest was lost.

Ninety Feet to Victory

2011-04-05T11:12:00.001-04:00

Wipe the week-end's tilts from your memory, Rooters of the Beantown Heroes! To-night, General Joshua P. Beckett will command the foot soldiers of Flannel Company A in their march on Cleveland.

I smell a Victory in the offing. Let the good General deliver his orders with haste, and his horsehides with the precision of a veteran soldier. Imagine the General staring down from his hurling mound, arm cocked like an infantryman's rifle, ready to fire his wadding!

Good General, shoot that wad! Shoot it straight and true!

Unpleasantness! Again!

2011-04-03T11:05:00.001-04:00

Jumping Jehoshaphat! Losers once more. And worse this time. In fact, rarely since Heracles was compelled to clean the Augean Stables has such a deluge of excremental fetor been loosed upon this poor world.

Gazing upon box score in the middle innings of the Bostons' Texas-sized trouncing Saturday night, it seemed clear early on that few would come out of this mess of a match-up smelling like the proverbial rose.

Least of all, of course, was John Lackey, who, with his hangdog deameanor and oversized underbite brings to mind the town yokel who fell off the turnip truck.

Old "Simple Jack" was hardly covering himself in glory: 10 hits and nine runs in the span of a mere three-and-two-third frames is not a peformance one would expect or hope for from our newly-slotted Number Two Man.

Be they doubles, triples, solo circuit clouts, or the grandest of slams, Lackey was happy to oblige the Lone Star State crowd with a fireworks show the likes of which may not have been seen since the year 1264, when Empress Dowager Gong Sheng enjoyed a feast held in her honor by her son, Emperor Lizong, during the late Song Dynasty.

It was the sort of spectacle that would have seen those ancient, long-ago Chinese sipping lustily from flagons of firewater. Here at Full Circuit Clout, we felt compelled, of course, to grab for yet more hefty pours of Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey. ("For When You Are Not Looking Well!")

In fairness, truly, Simple Jack himself was not looking well. The flop sweat fell in rivulets as the balls flew far and fast.

All in all, it was a horrorshow of an evening. Not even the second monstrous clout of the young season from The Colossus, nor a flawless inning from hefty new hurler Bobby "Weirdbeard" Jenks could help to put a cheery face on the proceedings.

But neither Rome nor the green fens of Boston Towne were built in a day. And despite the galling disappointments inflicted thus far by this vaunted squad, us Rooters must keep our heads high and our chins held up!

Courage! Onward!

Pain! Torment!

2011-04-02T13:37:00.000-04:00

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.

Wagons Ho!

2011-02-08T13:35:00.000-05:00

See Wee Willy on his wagon,

Filled with Cask, filled with Flagon.

Follow him to the thorough-fare,

To southern climes, with breezes fair.

Feed the draft horse! Remove the chockings!

They're off to Sunshine with our Red Stockings!

Gentle friends, huzzahs to one and all,

The boys in flannel are here 'til fall.

Slipped away

2009-10-11T21:08:00.004-04:00

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

2009-10-08T09:38:00.003-04:00

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...

2009-09-30T13:37:00.006-04:00

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...

2009-09-23T18:16:00.003-04:00

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...

2009-09-22T09:59:00.003-04:00

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!

2009-09-21T14:19:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-08T10:43:00.004-04:00

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!

2009-08-26T21:56:00.005-04:00

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!

2009-08-24T09:50:00.002-04:00

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!

2009-08-22T14:37:00.001-04:00

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

2009-08-17T09:53:00.006-04:00

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!

2009-08-12T16:53:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-11T09:13:00.003-04:00

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!

2009-08-10T09:32:00.005-04:00

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!

2009-08-05T14:00:00.003-04:00

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!

2009-08-04T16:07:00.004-04:00

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!

2009-07-31T14:33:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-29T11:32:00.004-04:00

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!

2009-07-28T17:07:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-27T14:38:00.005-04:00

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!

2009-07-23T13:13:00.004-04:00

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!

2009-07-22T10:52:00.003-04:00

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!

2009-07-16T10:50:00.003-04:00

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!

2009-07-13T13:08:00.007-04:00

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?

2009-07-10T12:12:00.008-04:00

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!

Attn. Red Sox: The All-Star pause has not begun yet!

2009-07-07T09:41:00.004-04:00

If this shoddy ball-playing continues, I will be forced to take a room at the Neal Institute!

The offense musters a mere two "hits" against a yannigan hurler, and our own veteran John "The Elder" Smoltz heads to the club-house for an early shower-bath? It appears to these eyes that our ball-men have forgotten that several matches stand between them and the All-Star pause in the contesting schedule.

Don't let the All-Star honors distract you from the task at hand. Leave aside the champagne flutes, oysters on the half-shell and broiled Delmonico steaks until the week-end. Pick up your leather mitts, ash-clouts and spiked boots and show us crisp baseball again!

Let us now praise Tim Wakefield!

2009-07-06T10:54:00.005-04:00

If anything can soothe the sting of two shabby Red Stockings performances against an inferior squad from Puget Sound, it is the delightful news that our own heroic hurler, Timothy "Knuckles" Wakefield, has received the honorary title of Base Ball All-Star!

For 14 long seasons, "Knuckles" has toiled selflessly for the good of the team, the good of the Sport, and the good of all American citizens who expect their ball-players to uphold the highest standards of personal conduct. Yes, his accumulation of twirling achievements is legendary: He stands alone atop Red Stocking records for matches started, and is within spitting distance for the franchise record for "wins" and "strike-outs."

His baffling effect on the pill's flight, engendered by the mysterious "knuckle-grip," is something few dare attempt, let alone master. But we Rooters know that the greatness of Mr. Wakefield comes from actions that bean-counters, statisticians and base-ball dilettantes overlook.

Whether he is volunteering for duties of ignominy, such as sacrificing his scheduled pitching turn in order to twirl many innings of relief in support of a beleaguered bull-pen during the '04 League Championship Series, or simply volunteering his time on behalf of New England's neglected urchins, he demonstrates all that is good and decent in ball players.

And now, he will be suitably honored across this fine land when he wears the Flannels of the American League in this summer's fabled exhibition contest.

Three cheers for Knuckles -- ball player, gentleman, and All-Star!

And a merry Independence Day to you, sir!

2009-07-03T09:58:00.006-04:00

Dear readers,

May your weiners be piping hot, your buns be toasted and your ale cold on your palate. Let the summer sun warm the flesh, and let an ocean breeze be most cooling on your moustache.

Settle down next to a portable wireless and revel in our freedom to listen to chapter after chapter of base-ball whilst sating ourselves with vittles and victuals procured from local merchants.

Cheers the sight of bunting at each and every parade, and holler gaily with every passing demonstration by the marching Women's Auxiliary.

And when our Heroes in Flannel, the Boston Red Stockings, plate ace after ace against the hapless Seattles, hoist your pilsner and be proud for America!

Your friend and confidant, patriot and Rooter, chronicler with Mr. Stuffy McInnes all things Red Stockinged and heroic on the base-ball pitch,

Hurdy Chadwick
Westbrook, Maine

Victory is ours!

2009-07-01T18:07:00.005-04:00

After a devastating struggle in the late chapters, to-day's tilt against the Baltimores turned out with a much finer result: An eleventh hour victory!

Indeed, our gents in crisp flannel made a fine effort to forget the muffs and gaffes of the previous day's disappointment and turned in a dandy of a "win" this afternoon. The day was filled with Youkilises and Pedroias, and our strong hurler Papelbon passed a milestone of his own. The day even saw a fine scoring clout by one High-Pockets Lugo.

Lest we forget, we are dealing with heroes here, friends. Heroes.

Sometimes, there are just no words

2009-07-01T10:58:00.003-04:00

Ponder your failure, relief-hurlers. Your epic, world-beating failure.

Ponder, and remember.

Never again.

(Back to my day-bed with a tumbler of Duffy's)

Fare-the-well, Col. Westbrook!

2009-06-26T14:51:00.008-04:00

The good scribe, Col. Westbrook

Allow me a brief departure from base-ball happenings and Red Stockinged conquests about this great land, for I have news.

It is with heavy heart I relay to you, dear readers, that the editor and publisher of my most favorite local news gathering organization, Westbrook Diarist, has shuttered its doors, ran its inkwells dry and moth-balled its printing presses.

At first mention of the closing of the most esteemed periodical to grace the banks of the Presumpscot since Nell Cavanaugh's Studies of Cumberland County Loam: A Land-Tiller's Quarterly Reference, I retired glumly to my sitting chair. Pondering the news, I poured a healthy dram of Duffy's and, with not a little moisture in my eyes -- which I ascribed to the summer catarrhal, of course -- raised my glass to Col. Westbrook, the brave and enterprising documentarian of all things of note in the Paper City.

Though a relative newcomer to the lush boundaries of Westbrook, the good Colonel has educated me and the local citizenry as to what it means to live with local fervor, and to heartily celebrate this burg on the periphery of Portland's bustling seaport.

What's more, Col. Westbrook was magnanimous with his observations, and took time to share with Full Circuit Clout his fine rememberances of when the Red Stockings deigned to travel north from Boston to share the shining loot of World Series Victory with the men and ladies of Maine. We at Full Circuit Clout are honored to feature his writings.

So to Col. Westbrook, we salute thee with a flagon of Duffy's! Huzzah to the Diarist from the Banks of the Presumpscot! May your writings live on and invigorate future generations of Westbrookians!

Back to the Farm League?

2009-06-24T14:42:00.002-04:00

The honchos of the Red Stockings have rendered their decision on the fate of one Daisuke Matsuzaka, our talented though maddeningly inconsistent hurler that has been equal parts flannel-clad hero and ineffectual pill tosser in his years with the home-town club.

The solution? It is the "injury list" for Mr. Matsuzaka-san, where he will be free to apply as many bandages and liniments as it takes to salve his ailing hurling arm. Or, perhaps, a long and refreshing stay at a western Maine resort where the cool air and purified waters will help him emerge from his current fugue like a sober man from a night in the hoosegow.

This year has shown our hurler from the Land of the Rising Sun to be a curious and difficult case. He allows sharp clouts as often as un-planned "walks", and opponents' ash sticks seem neither cowed nor deceived by Mr. Matsuzaka-san's pretzel delivery.

But fortunately for Rooters -- many of whom have spent much time anxiously chewing their moustaches as a result of Mr. Matsuzaka-san's pitching mound peculiarities -- there is hope on the horizon in the form of John "The Elder" Smoltz. The crafty veteran is sure to lift the spirits of many Red Stockings' fans just by toeing the hurling rubber in tomorrow night's major league debut. To see such an accomplished delivery-man wearing the flannels of the Olde Towne Team is enough to make one's base-ball-squeezed heart leap a few beats.

For while we wish a speedy recovery to our Daisuke Matsuzaka, we are secure in the knowledge that all has not gone astray with the full 162-game campaign. Alas, would that the same could be said for our peers down Bronx way!

And the sky was split with the force of his clouting!

2009-06-22T12:27:00.005-04:00

A terrible booming sound has echoed far and wide across the land. The common man can be forgiven for assuming it is the sound of thunder pealing through the leaden New England skies.

But Rooters know the true source of the racket: Our mighty swat-artist, "Colossus" Ortiz, has reclaimed the power of his fearsome ash-stick and launched a collection of window-rattling four-ply drives. He is now responsible for 5 full-circuit clouts in the month of June.

Yesterday, he delivered his most impressive blast yet -- walloping the pill into the teeth of a gale and over the Green Monster Edifice! Prior to his display, many seasoned base-ball men assumed that no mortal could reach the fences in such a blow! But the Colossus has been known to make hay of such narrow-minded predictions.

Later, like Prometheus stealing fire, the journeyman between-sacker Nick Green followed our Hero's lead by ending the contest with a round-tripper of his own. The assembled throng (Yours Truly among them) let forth a rousing "Huzzah" and raised their dripping Mackintosh sleeves skyward to recognize the achievement.

Opponents beware: The Colossus is standing in the batters-box with mayhem on his mind again.

Delightful weiners!

2009-06-16T10:33:00.003-04:00

(Breaks in the contesting schedule allow Hurdy and Stuffy to muse on subjects other than the comings-and-goings of out beloved Boston squad. Today, Stuffy offers opinions on an important topic: Ball-park comestibles.)

In my pereginations across this fine land, I avail myself of all opportunities to experience the local base ball sporting scene. For tho’ it is our national past-time, base ball develops unique characteristics according to its home region. Such local specialities include:
- “The Baltimore Chop”
- “The Texas-Leaguer”
- “The Akron Mock-Muff”
- “The New Amsterdam Shoe-horn”
- “The Poughkeepsie Pelt”

So during my recent sojourns, when dispatches to this fine record were meager, it became my duty and pleasure to observe local base ball as played in the Borough of Queens, New York, home of the Metropolitans of the National League.

There, a team of cigar-chomping bankers swindled the populace into constructing (an admittedly glorious) new ball-park, complete with dazzling amenities that are sure to be hallmarks of base-ball’s future -- including but not limited to powder rooms for the ladies in attendance!

Parading through the grounds, my experienced eye did not register the Metropolitans signature maneuver -- “The Flushing Flop” (For on this evening, the local squad achieved a dramatic “win” in extra frames).

Instead, I was gobsmacked by the victuals on display at the stadium canteen. Like all sensible Rooters, I find that a steaming weiner provides the perfect accompaniment for an evening of fine hurling and swatting. As luck would have it, wiener-stands are plentiful in this ball-park.

Upon procuring my snack, I searched for piquant mustard to dispense upon my tube-steak, as is my custom. Forthwith, I was directed to a steam-table displaying a cornucopia of condiments and dressings befitting a rajah! Alongside the traditional mustard and new-fangled but dubious “cat-sup,” I found:
- The Teutonic cabbage-based delicacy known as “sour-kraut”
- Pickled “relish”
- A saucy concoction of onion slices in red gravy
- And a pile of bright-green vegetable discs thinly sliced for ease-of-deployment between bun and frankfurter

The menu-poster informed me that these green beauties were known as “jalapeno peppers” – which I gleaned from the name’s Spanish derivation to be an imported fruit from South of the Border. Indeed, moldering letters sent from my Uncle Travis McInnes during the Mexican War contain obscure references to a fiery local pepper that soldiers found beneficial to their digestion.

“When in Rome,” as the saying goes -- so I carefully assembled a mixture of silvery cabbage, verdant “relish,” slick red onions and circular “jalapenos” atop my weiner sausage. Taking a first, tentative bite, I was delighted by the mixture of sweet and savory flavors, and the way the textures complemented the toothy snap of the weiner’s casing.

Then, I felt a pleasant heat spreading across my palate, enhancing my senses even as my free hand flew upwards to signal a passing suds-slinger! Soon, I fell into the rhythm: Bite of dog, pleasant burn, sip of cooling lager. Bite of dog, pleasant burn, sip of cooling lager.

Rooters: It was a platonic dish. In all my years of base-ball dining, never have I had such a satisfying weiner!

As a result, I implore the concessions crew at Fenway Park to expand their dressing and condiment selection. Scour the ethnic enclaves within the Hub to source these fine delicacies!

I give you my word that even conservative Rooters will take a shine to a Fenway Frank festooned with the flavors of the globe, or my name isn’t:

Stuffy McInnes, Rooter.

Oh, the disaster!

2009-06-15T15:06:00.003-04:00

Cornelius! Applebags, I say -- consarnit and phooey on this!

For what holy terror reigns when the Good Gen. Joshua P. Beckett loses his gumption on the pitching hill? Our fear-less leader, with whom any Rooter would not hesitate to follow into bloody conflict, was wronged in yesterday's tilt against the Philadelphians.

Indeed, the Freedom Fighters from the City of Brotherly Loving showed Boston's Patriotic heroes a thing or two about rising up against tyranny and breaking free from the bonds of well-hurled pills.

If only each "loss" was gift-wrapped with such a message of moral clarity.

A knock-out!

2009-06-12T10:02:00.002-04:00

At the completion of this three-round bout, the Bostons stood tall while the Gothams lay prone on the canvas like a battered palooka!

Snappy twirling by “Nickles” Penny and another four-ply drive from the Colossus accounted for the major blows. But a series of well-placed jabs from nearly every Boston squad member helped send their opponent tumbling.

And now, the glum Gothams rumble home on their steam train, holding a steak to their blackened eye. Good show!

Prepare to duke, New York!

2009-06-09T10:58:00.006-04:00

To-night, the Bostons take the field refreshed to face the Goliaths from Gotham, who have regained the top spot in the Eastern League of the Americans after a year of wandering and introspection.

What will this eve's tilt bring to the green environs of the Fens? Will catcalls rain down on admitted opiate fiend Alex "Slaps" Rodriguez? Will Mark "Sacks o' Cash" Teixeira engender similar dissatisfaction from the home crowd of Rooters? Will Melky "Chubby Britches" Cabrera finally find the foot-long frankfurter stand below the center-field bleacher seats?

All questions and more will be answered beginning with the first hurl of the pill this evening. Count me among the Rooters who will be tuned to the wireless to follow the proceedings. And rest assured that in one hand will be a tumbler of Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey while the other will be set to commence with a dose of moustache twirling should the game get tight.

Go forth, you heroic Red Stockings!

The Curious Case of High-Pockets Lugo

2009-06-06T12:20:00.010-04:00

When I awoke this morning with a woolly mouth, I could not decide if it was from all the lager and whiskey I quaffed last evening, or the bitter aftertaste of another shoddy performance by our beleaguered between-sacker, High-Pockets Lugo.

Rooters once again groaned as Ol' High-Pockets failed to contain a routine grasser. The play appeared to be a frame-ending "out" wrapped up in bows and ribbons. Instead, the pill tumbled past his feeble reach and plated one "run." The failure also allowed the Texans continued swatting, whereby bats-man Kinsler showed his appreciation for the additional swings by depositing the orb over the fences.

Hurler "Nickles" Penny took the gentleman's position following the contest, and declined to assign blame to his short-stop. But fellow scribblers and keyboard-clatterers have sharpened their nibs and begun executing High-Pockets by 1,000 pricks.

What to make of this enigma that is Lugo? Base-ball arithmaticians decry his reduced "range" -- and indeed, this once fleet-footed bag burgler now seems a one-man molasses flood on the diamond.

Is he still feeling the effects of surgery for Water on the Knee?

Did his much-touted work with the medicine ball during the winter months create too much bulk on his wiry frame?

Perhaps an excess of zinc in his diet has unbalanced his body humours?

Whatever the cause, the club must find a solution before High-Pockets' increasingly erratic play puts another check in the loss column.

How dare you, sir?

2009-06-04T13:41:00.003-04:00

In last evening's tilt against the Detroits, the squad in the early frames appeared as if they had just emerged from a double-shift at one of the many jalopy factories that dot this burg by the shores of Lake Saint Clair. They were seemingly asleep at the machinery of bats and balls, swinging their ash sticks lazily at each pill delivery. Their knees went wobbly as the horsehide dipped through the striking zone, and many a batsman staggered back to the dugout after being called "out" by the lead umpire behind the pentagon.

In truth, what afflicted the Detroits, those hale and hearty men from Michigan's fair land? Friends, it was neither the sleeps nor the summer caterrhal. Indeed, it was the devious and disciplined hurling of our own field commander, Gen. Joshua P. Beckett. The Good General allowed our home-town heroes to rack two five-spots of "runs" whilst being stingy and allowing zero for the Detroits.

And the General was not in the mood to accept guff from undisciplined gents: One Detroit attempted a "bunt" by squaring the ash to the pill, which resulted in a dribbling "hit" that for his good fortune rolled out of bounds. Such a strategy is in clear violation of a true base-ball-man's code of ethics when facing a hurler that has given up not only zero aces, but also zero "hits" on any one delivery. The General's response? A particularly crafty curving delivery that made Mr. Gerald Laird look the fool, and a beanball to the fair Mr. Laird just two chapters later.

And that, good sir, will educate you on the folly of tarrying with Gen. Joshua P. Beckett!

Update from Michigan: Boston 6, Detroit 3 in the last of the fifth. The Red Stockings posted six aces in the third chapter, including two scored without even the benefit of putting bat on ball! What a time to be alive!

Missing Persons Report

2009-06-01T14:03:00.004-04:00

Where are Hurdy and Stuffy, some Rooters may wonder.

Fallen off Duffy's Cliff?

Swept away in the Great Molasses Flood?

Done in by the Swine Flu epidemic?

Fortunately, nothing so dire as that. However, we have been unavoidably detained in recent days. In my circumstance, so far from the Hub that I have been unable to follow our beloved Red Stockings base ball club via wireless or even a reliable dispatch in the local broadsheet.

Regrets all around, and rest assured we will return to chronicling our heroes' diamond-exploits directly.

Humbly,

Stuffy McInnes, Rooter.

Three cheers for a "sweep"!

2009-05-22T12:40:00.003-04:00

The Bostons manhandled the visiting Torontos in capital style over the course of three games, serving notice that they will not allow their Northern rivals to enjoy divisional pre-eminence for much longer.

“Nothin’ Doin” Lester displayed fine mettle on the mound, surrendering a mere one “run” to the flighty bird-men. Our crack squad of reserve hurlers picked up the thread and sewed the sack shut.

Meanwhile, our batsmen continued their assault on hapless Toronto twirlers, with our own resident alien Jason “Argonaut” Bay once again making the loudest clout. A forceful message indeed that this mild-mannered Canadian gives no quarter to a squad representing his homeland!

To-night, the Bostons cross bats with the Metropolitans of the National League, in the annual diversion of inter-league contests. Tho’ fielding a weakened aggregation, the “Mets” ride forth this evening behind their own General, the spectactular-hurling Johan Santana. Will the returning Matsuzaka-san measure up to the task?

Rooters wait in keen anticipation!

And thus spoke the Colossus!

2009-05-21T09:13:00.003-04:00

And a tremendous sigh of relief was exhaled by the assembled Rooters as the Colossus made hay with a doozy of a delivery, clouting the pitch deep into the Boston night. And a restful sleep certainly was enjoyed last evening by Mr. Ortiz, our genial clouter who had seemed to have traded his ash clouting stick for a damp noodle.

Welcome back, Our Feared Colossus!

The Greenest Yannigan

2009-05-18T15:08:00.002-04:00

Curses on the inexperience of youth! As I sat in my armchair, an afternoon tumbler of Duffy's at the ready to bring me along into extra chapters during yesterday's thrilling stalemate with the Seattles, I heard the most horrendous sound.

The radio man's voice became high-pitched and wheezy, as he recounted a disastrous turn of events from the yannigan between-sacker Nicholas "Funny Britches" Green. Seems the rook made a colossal muff, hurling the apple beyond the first sacker and into a stand of bugs and cranks.

"What gives?" yelled I, receiving nothing but the crackle of the wireless as a reply.

Lo and behold, Green's gaffe led on the very next striker to a Seattle tally, and the conclusion of the match. The Seattles stormed the pitch like long-suffering seamen finally reaching port, while our flannel-clad heroes in Red hung their heads and boarded their Pullman sleepers for the journey back east.

Blargh on you, Mr. Green! And assorted follies for the other chaps who made this traveling set of games such a dismal basket of base-ball.

A Downpour in the Cascades!

2009-05-17T15:28:00.004-04:00

The clouts came early and often last evening as the Red Stockings and the Seattles squared off on the banks of Puget Sound. Before the attendees had settled into the stadium seating, The Argonaut blasted a mighty four-ply drive to put the Olde Towne Team on top by two aces. Capt. Varitek followed with a full circuit clout the very next chapter, adding another two Red Stockings across the pentagon.

Yannigan Jeffrey "Champ" Bailey Gen. Beckett pitched admirably, despite his penchant for offering the occasional batsmen a particularly fine pill to mash into the night sky.

This after-noon, the Red Stockings again face the Seattles, and will feature a batting order without The Colossus, who has appeared to trade his mighty ash for a cattail-and-reed this very season.

The case of the disappearing Colossus

2009-05-15T10:39:00.005-04:00

A warm spring sun cannot un-chill the hearts of New Englanders this morning. Some bemoan the fall of our ice hockey squad. Others grimly chew their moustaches and lament the inability of their green-clad basket-ball men to seal victory in their own championship tournament.

But stopping by the local tavern for my morning whiskey, I heard the loudest argle-bargle coming from Rooters pondering the performance of our great hero, David "The Colossus" Ortiz.

This once fearsome swat artist is now a mere spectral presence in the batting-box, his ash stick no better than a willow switch in his tentative fists. Last evening, in the far away Anaheim township of the Los Angeles metropolitan region of California, our Colossus failed to make a hit in seven trips to the pentagon. Worse, he had on two occasions a full complement of red-stocking base runners just waiting for him to deliver the fatal blow.

Skipper Francona, as befuddled as all Rooters, has determined that the big man be relieved of swatting duties for the evening. In the interim, he's cabled the local constabulary, inquiring whether they have a detective trained in the latest sleuthing sciences that can uncover the mystery of our missing Colossus.

Courage, Rooters. Courage.

Who's minding the store?

2009-05-13T21:47:00.005-04:00

Hullo? Hullo?

Is there any-body here?

Please forgive the dingy appearance of Full Circuit Clout these past days. Your genial proprietors Hurdy and Stuffy, Esqs., have been plundering the depths of their inkwells and scratching parchment after parchment to satisfy their day-do-day employers.

Indeed, such joy as is taken from maintaining this enterprise, your friends of the pen haven't kept up the store as we'd like. That said, we assure you, dear reader, that we haven't forgotten our mission, to produce a periodical where "we celebrate this fine pasttime of base-ball, a sensible game for sensible men, where morals reign and comradeship is paramount."

In the coming days and weeks, we will make certain to weigh in on matters of import to the base-ball fandom the world over, including:

Manny "The Wonder" Ramirez' running afoul of league inspectors, and a rumored visit by the Pinkertons to inquire about unlawful shipments of contraband whisky from our friends in Canada.
Dustin "Lil' Hands" Pedroia and the state of his beleagured frame. Will the extra days' rest refill his flagon of grit and determination to overflowing?
The crafty willow-wielding by our offensive juggernaut, Jason "The Argonaut" Bay
Our cadre of scouts in the garden, who have of late patroled the green grass of Fenway's outer-field with speed and aplomb
Will our Colossus return? "Fear not," say base-ball compatriots!
The redemption of our stout-limbed Captain Varitek, who was content on a recent night to hoist the entire team to victory thanks to a well-timed swat of his ash club.

All that and much more in store for you, dear reader. Until then, onward to victory, you flannel-clad heroes of the Red Stockings!

Sweeping out Gotham

2009-05-06T14:01:00.004-04:00

After a humiliating series in the miasma-infested hippodrome of the Tampas, the Local Nine steamed north for their first visit to the new base-ball edifice of the New Yorks. To the delight of Rooters all across New England, our boys were very unwelcome guests.

That facility’s preposterous trappings of empire failed to cow our lion-hearted ball men, who instead made clout upon clout ring out through the city’s damp skies. The only sound louder than the crack of ash against horsehide was the invective hurled toward their own team by enraged bleacherites, many bundled in mackintoshes and ulsters against the miserable weather conditions. Seems the New York crowd is feeling a bit fleeced this spring – from both the outrageous fees required to enter the turnstiles of the new ball grounds, and from the high-priced ringers acquired during the off-season who as yet are counting more silver dollars than “hits” or “quality starts.”

Pardon me if I fail to sympathize with those whinging malcontents -- I have a ball game to follow this evening, as the Clevelands arrive for two tilts in Fenway Park.

Recuperate that golden throat!

2009-05-04T14:44:00.003-04:00

I recently noted my affection for our beloved base-ball announcer in this space, and it appears our broadcast hero is on the mend from an ailment that has accursed him since early this season. We at Full Circuit Clout wish Mr. Remy a speedy recovery and offer this tonic as a remedy for full-health: Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey, for when you are not looking well!

Meanwhile, our wireless will crackle with the goodness of The Eck, direct from Gotham's grand new fortress, where our local nine will spend two evenings tussling with the inimitable New Yorks.

Vapors in the batting box!

2009-05-02T11:33:00.006-04:00

What gives, Heroes of the Hub, our flannel-clad warriors of the base-ball pitch? When you swing your ash sticks, why does it look so feeble? When you put ash on horsehide, why is it more like an ineffectual slap than a mighty clout? Why must it appear that you swoon from a case of the vapors each time the hurler deceives you with his pretzel delivery?

I am not accustomed to being stern with our local nine, but the time has come to remind our erstwhile heroes that they are men, and men who clout and produce four-ply drives with efficacy and grit! Men who make merry on the opposing squad's home-plate! Men who beguile and consternate with each new delivery of the pill!

Above all, Boston Red Stockings are men who achieve victory. Let us not forget our purpose, gentlemen.

White washed!

2009-05-01T09:19:00.003-04:00

When we bestowed our "Yannigan of the Week" honor on young Van Every, we surely did not expect his exploits to include hurling a frame of relief in a debacle of a base ball contest.

More troubling is the fact he commanded the pill with more aplomb than our erstwhile leader, Gen. Joshua P. Beckett. In fact, the General has appeared of late more like a buck private, and the dark clouds of concern are gathering over New England this morning.

Yannigan of the Week: Jonathan Van Every

2009-04-29T23:00:00.003-04:00

From fine mitten work in the out-field to a heart-churning late-chapter clout to put the Red Stockings ahead for good, young Jonathan Van Every is our Yannigan of the Week!

As my good friend Bricks Kibley might say, "Hoo-rah, young yannigan!"

A race to the finish!

2009-04-28T17:18:00.003-04:00

To-day's unseasonably warm weather in Maine has led me to strip my necktie and un-button my waist coat. My 20th Regiment flag flutters gaily in my back-yard, and I hear the whirring of a pushed mowing machine in my neighbor's grass patch. And though the day is a beaut beyond compare, my summer reverie is complete only because I have thought many times to-day of Jason "Argonaut" Bay's decisive four-pillow-roundabout in last night's tilt with the Clevelands.

A ninth-chapter clout in a scoreless ball game? Leave it to our resident Canadian to steal quietly to the plate and unload a full boat of northern aggression on the spinning pill, lofting it high into the grandstands whilst the assembled Clevelanders hung their heads in shame. Shame!

A reverential nod to our good hurler, Timothy "Knuckles" Wakefield, for his crafty deliveries that kept the opposing squad's ash sticks silent for much of the evening.

Eleven wins in a string. A dozen, we hope, will come this eve!

High larceny on the base-paths!

2009-04-27T09:12:00.006-04:00

After Saturday night's festival of clouts, I was curious yesterday whether we'd see another match defined by brawny four-ply drives. Fortunately, the evening's contest was a thinking-man's affair, with the two teams engaged in a chess match of fundamental base-ball. The Bostons triumphed, making it a clean sweep of the week-end tilt.

The Gothams scored in the third, but that ace was equalized the very next chapter when the Gazelle-like Ellsbury scampered home from the third sack after a long "sacrifice" rap by The Colossus. The "score" was tied, and Ellsbury's swiftness down the base-paths was just a foreshadowing of the excitement to come!

For just two chapters later, Ellsbury again was occupying on the third sack, sitting in the catbird seat as Andy "Astro" Pettitte went through his usual hurling machinations. As a southpaw, Pettitte's pretzel delivery puts the third sack in his blind spot. On one certain pitch, ol' speedy Ellsbury had wandered far from the safety of the pillow, quietly padding into a no-man's land for base-ball running men!

And then it happened: Pettitte wheeled to deliver the pill, and as his frame rotated toward the batter he glimpsed a flash of speed racing its way to home. An awkward delivery was not enough to catch ol' Jacoby, who slid under the backstop's pill-filled mitten in what is the most stupendous bit of bag burgling I ever have seen.

The surprised Rooters assembled at the park created such a joy-fueled cacophony that local constables were called to investigate the disturbance. Men cheered, the few women in attendace wept and convulsed, and children stood in awe of the bullet-like speed of our Jacoby Ellsbury.

The ambition and fortitude required to tackle such a feat is higher than most mortals every will experience, yet it is clearly something our Heroes in Flannel quaff by the flagonful before each match.

Huzzah for a week-end of victories!

Late-chapter clouts dispatch Gothams!

2009-04-25T07:19:00.004-04:00

What a match last evening! At times it was a most frustrating endeavor to listen to the incompetence of the Boston batsmen. Each time the sacks were clogged with runners in position to score an ace, the would-be clouter at the bat-box would smack a daisy cutter directly to an opposing handler -- usually the between-sacker -- who would toss the apple to both the second and first bags to record two "outs".

"Arrgh!" I moaned so constantly I was in need of a throat compress by the seventh chapter! I received a dispatch from Stuffy McInnes near abouts those chapters which told me he was in the same pickle, physiologically speaking. These Heroes in Flannel were causing significant body strain!

The recipe: A dram of Duffy's and some fresh April air. A quick stroll around my Westbrook neighborhood did the trick and I returned to my sitting room reinvigorated, ready for whatever crackle of Red Stockings news came o'er the wireless.

What I was not prepared for, good friends, was the high drama to be experienced in the latest of chapters, the home-team's last "ups", where stickmen faced the dreaded Mariano "Fruit Bat" Rivera, who had locked many a late-game victory for his team with his crafty pretzel delivery of the pill. For this night, Jason "Argonaut" Bay had a different tale to tell, when his ash stick connected to a poorly hurled sphere that was rocketed out of grounds of Fenway in a Colossus-sized clout! The four-ply drive tallied two "runs", knotting the match at four aces apiece.

Meanwhile, the Boston hurlers, which for much of the game had exhibited poor direction and a proclivity to lay damp noodles positioned perfectly for whacking, rose to the occasion, with Dancin' Jonny Papelbon engineering a picture-perfect "strike-out" of Mark "Turncoat" Teixiera to close the 10th "inning". What guts on that young bulldog of a hurler!

Fortunately, Kevin "Yukon" Youkilis, the beard of the ages, connected in the very next chapter, commandeering a pill delivery and rerouting said pill directly to the ale-swilling patrons at the Cask and Flagon.

Bedlam in Fenwayville, and unbridled joy on a late hour in sleepy Westbrook.

Mid-Day Tilt on Tap!

2009-04-22T11:03:00.006-04:00

A deluge worthy of Noah himself kept the Bostons from contesting the Minnesotas last evening. Poor Knuckles would have had to don a scaphander instead of the flannels just to make it to the mound -- and I shudder to think how that bulky vestment would impact his twirling ability.

Instead, the team stayed wisely in-doors and scheduled a delightful double-tilt for to-day. Let us hope for a fine after-noon and evening of snappy ball from our Nine. Lead on, Knuckles!

UPDATE: A carnival of clouts! Another virtuouso hurling display from Knuckles Wakefield! Another "win" in the Bostons' ledger!

Sadly, the contest was ended in the seventh chapter by way of rain, and weather scientists predict another soaker for the evening.

The stealthy bag-burglar

2009-04-20T17:07:00.002-04:00

As a resident of a border state, I have always kept a weather eye on our neighbors to the North. Although generally amiable, the Canadian is nonetheless a sneaky type -- all quiet footfalls developed through years of game-stalking in deep woods and selective deployment of a cryptic version of the French language.

Yet, when it suits the Canadian, he may walk freely among us and appear as American as any Tom, Dick or Harry you’d meet at the local tavern. Thus, in this manner, he maintains his secret Canadian posture -- Listening. Observing. Waiting.

It is precisely those characteristics that allowed Jason “Argonaut” Bay to startle the opposing Baltimores -- and all Rooters! -- during Saturday evening’s contest.

It was the third frame, three “runs” already made when “Yukon” Youkilis blasted a four-ply drive. Bay, the steady stick-man, achieved a free pass to the first pillow. Without hesitation, he seized upon his opponents’ slumbering and hurtled himself down the base-path. The backstop hurled the pill, but too late! Bay had burgled the second bag!

“What’s this?” I asked myself over the sound of joyous cheers on the wireless, “I never took the Argonaut for a sack-snatcher!”

Indeed, the Argonaut burgled only 10 bags in all of last season. Still, his selective approach and unremitting stealth placed him in position to complete his circuit when “Two-bags” Lowell connected for a “single” during his at-bat.

It is through such gamesmanship that the Bostons can vanquish their formidable rivals in the Eastern Division of the American League. Yes, the full-circuit clout has immediate effect, but it is just as important to fabricate “runs” through savvy base-running. A tip of my bowler hat to you, “Sneaky J.”

Yay for morning base-ball!

2009-04-20T11:44:00.004-04:00

How wonderful to spend the working day with the wireless tuned in the background to Red Stockings baseball! The heroes of the Hub are up three scores to none, and threaten to shellac the Baltimores over the four-game set whilst improving the home-town club's record to a reasonable balance of wins and losses.

Enjoy the day, good Patriots!

Update: A good drubbing by the local nine, which deposited 12 "runs" on the hapless Birds of Baltimore. The Red Stockings are back in the black!

The man behind the micro-phone

2009-04-17T17:50:00.003-04:00

How many hours have I spent perched on my footstool, swirling a tumbler of Duffy's, marveling at the wondrousness of the voice crackling over the wireless?

Indeed, the Red Stockings' fine game-day announcer, "Jerry" Remy, brings a welcomed tenor to the on-field proceedings of our favorite base-ball squad. And though I have become well-accustomed to his pleasing descriptions of bat-on-ball heroics and hurling feats, I knew little of the man behind the micro-phone.

Fortunately, a scribe from the Boston news-paper convinced Mr. Remy to sit for an extended tete-a-tete, and the resulting work is quite satisfying, indeed. Thank you, Mr. Neil Swidey, for your fine portrayal of a man whose voice has become as comfortable as the shawl I wrap around my shoulders on those first chilled nights of autumn.

The Sacrament of Reconciliation

2009-04-15T23:02:00.007-04:00

Following the conclusion of last evening's base ball contest, I immediately conveyed myself to the Church of St. Ignatius with sorrow in my heart. Father Flanagan was waiting in the darkened confessional, where I performed the following act of contrition:

McInnes: Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession.

Father Flanagan: What brings to back to us after so long, my son? What sins do you wish to confess today?

McInnes: Father, I lost faith. I harbored vile, cowardly doubts about the mettle of our heroic hurler, "Knuckles" Wakefield.

I feared that his unorthodox style of pill-delivery would fail him at the critical hour, and the Oaklands would festoon the out-field with hot grassers, and plant clout after clout beyond the far fences. I feared his yannigan battery-mate would be unable to gather his most erratic hurls. And I feared, above all, that this disaster would occur when there was narry a reserve-hurler ready to take the mound.

Fr. Flanagan: These are indeed grave sins, my doubting Stuffy. Is it not obvious, after these long years of service to the Bostons, that Knuckles is amongst finest characters to ever wear the flannel and red hose? Has Knuckles not demonstrated time and again that needs of his squad trump his own interests?

Could you doubt that this true gentleman, fierce competitor and man of honor would keep his word when assuring Skipper Francona, "I understand the circumstances of the day, and I just want you to know whatever happens - don't take me out."

But I hear the contrition in your voice. You would not be confessing were you not aware of these facts already. Let this test of faith remind you that a base ball squad has no finer contributor than Knuckles Wakefield. Now, go light 49 candles in the sanctuary and sing three "Tessie"'s in penance.

Gumshoe, find our Heroes!

2009-04-15T10:23:00.004-04:00

The following is an excerpt from Hurdy's latest crime-fighting serial, "The Credenza Never Lies", to be published in simultaneous installments by "Ladies' Home Journal" and "Cub Scouts Monthly".

Hey there, shadow. I've got a job for you. Twelve bucks a day, plus expenses. But lay off the top-shelf stuff -- I know you're a rot-gut kinda guy anyway. Keep it that way, slick.

Look, I need some guys found, see? One's a big galoot, six-four, two-and-a-half bills, goes by the name "Papi". Funny beard -- like a strap for an old bomber helmet. Ain't seen him since, shoot, almost two years ago. Last we heard of him, his wrist clicked something fierce when he handled the old ash stick.

Here' s another: Old Daisuke, the Terror from Tokyo. Seems he's all tuckered out from his international scene-making -- which is the last time he hit on all sixes. These days, well, it's the other guy that's doing the hitting, and old Daisuke's the palooka.

And while you're at it, Dick, put out an APB on the General. Seems old Beckett's high tailed it after his run in with the commish. Can't blame him. Old Selig came down pretty hard on the General after he let loose that Anaheim torpedo at Bobby A. If you find him, keep him away from the bearcats -- those hot-tempered Doras will just wear out our good General!

Any hoops, us and the guys, we need these gents here, see? Or else those Bronx bums and Tampa Bay teetotalers will have us over a barrel. Hell, half the team is up to their ears in giggle water because our season's barely started and we're already staring at one big banana slick of a record.

Jeez, gumshoe, can you help a fella out?

Mister, can you spare some vim?

2009-04-14T10:38:00.002-04:00

Let us acknowledge the corn: The first week of the Bostons’ 2009 base ball campaign has been nothing short of wretched.

Last evening, I was filled to the brim and ready to over-flow with sad words for my fellow Rooters. But after a sleepless night of moustache chewing and Duffy’s-taking, I settled my brain with the notion that the first moments of a long campaign are rarely indicative of its conclusion. After all, Napoleon’s Grande Armee looked formidable as it commenced its march on Moscow in 1812. Recall from your history lessons the result of that folly.

Instead, I have puzzled through the Bostons apparent lack of base ball skills by turning the question from tip to tail: Which members of the local nine appear to be in fine fettle, and what is their secret?

The answer, gleaming like a spire in the spring sunlight, is our resolute first-sacker: “Yukon” Youkilis!

Altho’ noticeably less hirsute, Yukon is nonetheless scalding the horsehide in the same terrible fashion he displayed last season. He’s making hits in roughly every other plate appearance, while his teammates can barely manage to reach the first station in one quarter of their attempts. He is swatting four-ply drives and “extra” base hits as if to register his disgust with the offerings of opposing hurlers!

Perhaps Yukon’s bottomless reserves of vigor can be attributed to his off-season conditioning and gustatory habits. I’ve heard from my club-house informants that team-mates have asked him to prepare a luncheon of the bush victuals he regularly consumes while recuperating from the season (and cultivating his whiskers) in the remote northern wilderness.

On the menu today: Beaver-tail soup, bear sausage, and raw lake trout pulled directly from the icy waters and still flopping in protest. Let us hope this meal restores the rest of our Nine to their optimum hurling, swatting and fielding condition.

The bats, they slumber...

2009-04-13T12:49:00.002-04:00

Like a little lad all tuckered out after a day skinning squirrels and chasing tadpoles, there was no waking the Red Stockings' ash bats yester-day.

Indeed, our heroic clouters turned in at an early hour yester-day, despite the Anaheimians continuing to take the field and push "runners" 'round the sacks. Following a first-chapter dustup between Gen. Beckett and Bobby "Barrels" Abreau -- all concerning a wildly uncorked speedball that nearly knocked Barrels' noggin cap clean off -- the Anaheimians certainly were the squad with the most vim and vigor.

Perhaps the Red Stockings' Pullman trip across the Great Plains was marred by lumpy mattresses and stale crackers. Or perhaps there is some corps-wide malady affecting the lads' level of grit and determination.

Whatever the case, Rooters from Presque Isle to Pasadena are calling for a return to form this eve against the Athletics of Oakland. The challenge has been laid down, heroes of the flannel!

A festival of clouts!

2009-04-12T10:20:00.002-04:00

On Saturday, the Bostons returned to the ball-park in Anaheim invigorated after their loss Friday evening. The walloping by the "Angels" must have sparked many a locker-room diatribe by the team's veteran members, for the Red Stockings responded famously.

It was, as the Germans say, a cloutfest.

Huzzah to Jason "Argonaut" Bay and Mikey "Two Bags" Lowell, who swatted furious full circuit clouts to bring the Bostons ahead of their West-Coast Foes. And to cap the back-and-forth tilt, old "Dancin' Jonny" Papelbon engaged in ninth-chapter battle with several of the Anaheimians before securing the Victory with a routine fly-ball to the right outfielder, the Pride of Little Rhode Island, Rocco Baldelli.

Five games down, 157 to come.

Missed by a hair!

2009-04-10T11:45:00.003-04:00

Yester-day's tilt against the upstart Tampa Bays was a delightful match played on a delightfully sunny and warming spring day. Huzzah, base-ball!

Alas, the ending result was difficult to stomach: Following Capt. Varitek's resounding four-sacker, the Red Stockings were just one plate-crossing from tying the Floridians. Poor Jed "Square Face" Lowrie: One hit in 11 tries, and six "strike-outs" to mar his batting record. It was Square Face's limp noodle of a bat that failed to continue the ninth chapter.

Still, a fine effort by the heroes in Red -- though some have expressed concern about our Friend from the Far East, the Diasuke Dynamo, Mr. Matsuzaka, who allowed four Tampa Bays to slide across the home plate whilst he kept watch on the pitching hill.

To-night, our beloved Red Stockings complete their wire-to-wire Pullman voyage across the plains and prairies, steaming into southern California to be hosted by the Angels of Anaheim. The start time is too late for this Rooter, who will instead dispatch his young nephew to keep an ear on the game until the wee hours, and scribble updates on parchment for his dear uncle to read upon first light.

God-speed, you Red Emperors!

April Fools?

2009-04-08T22:25:00.005-04:00

Alright, then, what wag is responsible for the put-on?

Surely a money-man (possibly from a gambling syndicate) arranged an elaborate humbug in to-night's contest. Surely that aggregation of bumblers wearing our beloved red hose is not the same group of gentlemen ball-players who bested the Tampas in yesterday's Inaugural Tilt.

Following a decisive victory that featured all the beauties of the game, the squad patrolling Fenway's scared diamond appeared more like sailors who had recently stumbled from the nearest rum-hole. Shoddy fielding, limp stick-work, haphazard hurling -- muffluism seemed to be the order of the day in this altogether unattractive match for Rooters to behold.

Now that the jest is done, may we please return our fine starting nine to their positions for to-morrow's afternoon "rubber" match?

We shan't take this lying down!

2009-04-08T22:17:00.005-04:00

After yesterday's thrilling wallop of the upstart Tampa Bays -- and the courageous hurling of the good Gen. Joshua P. Beckett -- to-day's tilt was one step back for the boys in Red.

Jonny "Nothin' Doin'" Lester certainly was doing something. And that "something" apparently was not prodigous hurling, for our twirler offered free window dressing to the lads from the Sunshine State rather than confounding pretzel deliveries of the pill. Though Nothin' Doin' had some agreeable moments, the Tampa Bays put ash stick after ash stick on the old horsehide, knocking it to and fro about the Fens.

It is clear that my constitution is not up to snuff at such an early point in the base-ball season, as this one "loss" has muddled my head and made me reach for the Duffy's on more than one occasion. Still, one must remind oneself that it is far better to follow a losing base-ball contest than to toil at a menial task or other mundane drudgery. And for that, I am certainly thankful for all that this season of base-ball promises to offer.

To-morrow, fresh tubes for the wireless and a refill of the Duffy's jug. It is time to settle in for a season of hurling and clouting!

On-ward to victory!

2009-04-07T14:53:00.005-04:00

Behind the throaty cries of "Charge!" from our heroic Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, our corps of clouters and hurlers are set to storm the grassy enclave of Fenway Park in just one hour's time to do battle with the hearty Tampa Bay youngsters.

But today's tilt is different from any regular clout parade or twirling demonstration: For today is Opening Day, the day that the freshly laundered bunting is hung from the architectural escarpments of beautiful Fenway, and when the Green Monster has been brushed lovingly with a new coat of milk paint. The suds vendors have cleaned their tapping lines, and the frankfurter salesmen have warmed their voices to compete against the cheering throngs of Rooters -- some of them ladies! -- packing the steerage seats in center-field.

It is true that no other day at the ball-park is filled with the unbridled joy -- and requisite pomp and circumstance -- of an Opening Day. Today's ball-game brings to mind an adventure Stuffy and I undertook last year, when we steamed to North Station and transferred on many a trolley to reach the field before the Opening Day ceremonies began. I urge you to relive that day through our humbe diary entries here and here. What a day to be a base-ball "fan"!

Indeed, to-day is a day to thank the Good Maker for all that He has wrought, from the green-hued Firmament in the Fens to the heroic flannel-clad warriors who don the Red Stockings 162 times each season. Huzzah to the clouters and hurlers! Rooters, rejoice! For to-day the bleak winter comes to a close and spring begins a-new.

Play ball!

Opening Day Guest Posting: Hoo-rah, Base-ball! Hoo-rah, Red Stockings! Hoo-rah, Spring!

2009-04-06T21:29:00.008-04:00

In honor of the grand return of the contesting season, Hurdy Chadwick and Stuffy McInnes have invited a few fellow Rooters to share their thoughts on the state of Red Stockings base-ball.

Our next guest posting comes from Bricks Kibley, a fellow keyboard-clatterer we've counted as a colleague since we were mere yannigans on the junior scribbling circuit. Bricks is a fine gentleman who is known to enjoy a "jar" and smoked meats while rooting for the local nine. Welcome, Bricks! What say you?

Across our great land, half-forgot sounds perk the ears of teamsters and oxen in half-furrowed fields, robin red-breast on ochre-colored town greens and, in our great metropolises, street urchins and the robber barons at whose spats they stoop. The crack of the ash! The pop of rawhide smacking mitt! The wiseacre patter of our flannel-clad boys of summer-time! Yes, dear reader, America’s pass-time again begins anew!

Fanatical followers — “fans”, as the youth would have it — of Bean-town’s bean-ball Red Stockings begin salting away cod for pick-nick ventures to Lansdowne’s beloved haven of hardball: Fenway Park. Meantime, the despised pin-stripers of New Amsterdam summon their legions to a just-erected edifice, a palatial tribute to excess the like of which hasn’t been seen since Sodom — a stadium fit for the Grand Turk himself!

The rumor-vine murmurs that the hated Yankees re-erected their hardball house to accommodate the cyclopean cranium of Alex “Purple Lips” Rodriguez, the Croesus-like girth of newly inked hurler Carsten “Sandbags” Sabathia and the barbers, chemists surgeons and other medicine “quacks” who attend Sabathia’s brother-in-arms, “Arm Jalopy” Burnett. Surely the Bostonians will play Joshua to this Jericho! Or my name isn’t...

Bricks Kibley

Soggy Bunting!

2009-04-06T11:55:00.004-04:00

Alas fellow Rooters, Mother Nature has again trumped our quotidian lives!

With wind and rain coursing toward Fenway's environs, the Red Stocking Base Ball Club has delayed today's tilt until tomorrow at 4:05 p.m. Winter's long, dreary grasp has us in its clutches for another day.

Stoke the stove and pour another dram of Duffy's in preparation for the longest night of the year. In the interim, we will continue to share musings on the return of base-ball from our esteemed guests.

Courage!

Opening Day Guest Posting: Col. Westbrook

2009-04-06T09:11:00.011-04:00

I share the company of so many Pine Tree Staters who so anxiously await this after-noon’s curtain-opener against the juvenile Tampas that I’ve exhausted my third piece of pure spruce gum of this hour. But amid this modest correspondent’s clamoring for the Red Stockings’ eighth campaign of the New Century lies a nugget of blasphemy so coal-colored I fear only a figurative peeling away of my matrimony-fattened breast can bleach the madness that so plagues me.

To-day, the sixth day of the month so fittingly inspired by the Latin equivalent of "the opening," should be a day sprinkled with confetti cut from the scraps of Samuel Dennis’s paper mill and marked by a celebration flowing so heavily from The Elevenses onward that my cranium is induced to a smooth state bettered only by one of Old Man Haskell’s finest productions.

Alas! This day in the month christened by Eliot as the cruellest month is made only crueller by a reminder of the cruellest day in my Red Stockings’ rooting career: 16 Dec. '04.

During the harvest of that year, the Red Stockings sprung a well so deep it flooded the long-droughted crops plaguing its fanatics' bosoms. Stout men pilgrimaged to the family plot to drip salt onto the granite graves of their perennially defeated ancestors. Paper City citizens everywhere--from the Alms House and Farm on Saco to The Elms on Cumberland--whooped for joy. Even the stern taskmistress Ms. Bertha Rice from Forest Street School was spied clicking her clogs in thin air!

Yet! For celebration on that ignominious winter's day, we Pine Tree Staters were disgraced with the presence of: Mark "Earmuffs" Bellhorn, a pauper’s "Lil’ Hands" whose habit of donning a Chester Greenwood-configured "batting helmet" does not redeem the fact that he could not grasp The Colossus’s ample undergarments; Leonard "Azzurri" DiNardo, an antecedent to ‘Ol Aches and Pains who spent more time that fateful year hopefully gulping Duffy’s Pure Malt Whiskey than he did sipping the bubbles of victory, stood in for our heralded warrior Der Spiegel; and D.A. Mirabelli, a player whose career highlight consists of a Pullman’s ride from the sun-splotched City of a Whale’s Vulva and a subsequent constable-led scramble atop the cobblestones of the Hub, sat astern the Forest City fire wagon instead of our steadfast Capt. Varitek. The only respectable "rep" sent from the Bostons was the marble-faced Youkilis, though I submit he was then more of the promising--and abbreviated--"Greek God of Walks" than the everyday grizzled "Yukon" we rooters have come to salute.

For all the annual chilly spring hours I have spent huddled in my parlor distinguishing the cackle of the wireless tube from the crackle of the evening fire, this is how the Red Stockings rewarded me! For all the annual stifling summer minutes I have spent lounging before the wireless on my back porch tolerating only my britches and tenement "tee shirt," this is how the Red Stockings rewarded me! For all the semi-annual autumn mornings when only a "shot" of Duffy's could solve the dark night before, this is how the Red Stockings rewarded me!

Oh, bustling boys of the Bostons: Why can't I quit you?

Opening Day Guest Posting: Chippy Burdock

2009-04-06T00:06:00.007-04:00

To-day is a fine day in the life of any red-blooded Rooter from Scituate to St. Agatha. Indeed, to-day is the day the Boston Red Stockings grace the emerald field for the first of many tilts of this year's heroic campaign. To commemorate this auspicious day, Hurdy Chadwick and Stuffy McInnes have invited a few fellow Rooters to share their thoughts on the state of Red Stockings base-ball.

Our first guest posting comes from fellow scribe and Boston gadabout Chippy Burdock, a man's man and a font of Red Stockings knowledge. Welcome, Chippy, and play ball!

Chippy Burdock
Boston, Mass.

The bunting is strung gaily ‘cross the box seats and rafters of our lyric little bandbox, but from those festive pleats drip torrents of rain water. And, alas, Jove continues to pelt the gathered Rooters with angry droplets thrown down from the firmament!

Base-ball may yet be played on Fenway’s meticulously mowed lawn to-day, or yet it may not. As we wait with baited breath to see whether the Bostons will take the field, prepared to do battle behind “ace” hurler Joshua P. Beckett, there is naught all to do but listen to the wireless and wait.

As we do, it is worth pondering the merits of the men and women of the New England Sports Network, those dogged legmen, shouters, and opinion mongers who help bring the noble game to life each eve’n’ing in our living rooms and parlours.

Of course, the voice we’ve longed to hear these interminable winter months belongs to Mr. Jerry “Doggy” Remy, a hale and hearty fellow whose time spent playing for the Bostons, three decades past, did not result in a surfeit of circle clouts, but whose fleet feet and spry glove at the second bag were inestimable assets to a team that could well have been World Beaters in 1978 were it not for the dunderheadedness of one Donald Zimmer.

Over the years, Mr. Remy has proven himself an astute student of the game, and as his crown of hair has thinned atop and his jowls have drooped (as they do in later life), he’s become a teacher of the intricacies and finer aspects of the sport. He’s a happy sort, presiding from his perch over Red Sox Nation as he hawks truckloads of personalized sundries and puffs cigar-ettes on the sly between plays.

Sharing the talking booth with “Doggy,” is Don “Announcer Man” Orsillo. Don is a rather excitable chap, given to peppering his broadcasts with punning world play such as “down by way of the K” and “home run.” He is a pleasant man, beloved by all for his cheerful demeanor, dulcet speaking voice, and bouts of uncontrollable laughter.

A native of our great home state of Maine – having grown up playing ice-hockey in Lewiston, near the mighty churning Androscoggin – Tom “Tee See” Caron is a fine and capable host, manning the desk in the network’s Watertown headquarters and enlightening we Rooters with spot-on analysis and interviews with assorted Knights of the Keyboard. Assisting him in these endeavors is Dennis “Ecky” Eckersley a Hall of Fame hurler with a unique, self-styled vocabulary ("high cheese," etc.), a shock of stylishly feathered hair, and the finest and most luxuriant moustache since William Howard Taft enacted his Dollar Diplomacy in 1909.

Finally, reporting from the nooks and crannies of the park, often bringing news via her micro-phone while standing in Canvas Alley, is the flaxen-haired Heidi Watney. Many chaps (including, rumour has it, a certain backstop who dons the tools of ignorance for the Bostons) count Ms. Watney as a beauty non-pareil. Her knowledge of the sport may be merely adequate, but she surely is a pleasant sight to behold as the summer sun shines warmly upon her pretty features, and she’s proven adept enough at soliciting post-game stock quotations from Bostons who’ve helped win contests with dramatic late-inning clouts or Herculean hurling.

Hopefully this team will enjoy many such moments throughout this coming season – wind, rain or shine.