The picture of comfort!

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!

Sweeping out Gotham

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.

Bird Hunting in the North Country

Despite a dispiriting loss in the final tilt against the orange-feather'd foes of Charm City, the Bostons proved themselves well-able to take down their subordinates in the American League's Eastern regiment.

The quest for another Pennant now has our heroes ensconced deep in Canadian territory, where they face another squad of pesky birds, this time of blue plumage. We hope they spent the long locomotive journey checking their powder and aligning their sights to spray white bullets all over the pitch.

To-night, our own Byrd of recent vintage -- he of the pretzel delivery -- commands the pill on behalf of our squad. He must contain the Torontos' surging bats to give our Boys a chance to overcome the afflictions that so often plague them when contesting within those hideous, miasma-fogged, enclosed stadia. At least we can count on the northern latitudes to set the feral instincts of our fierce first-sacker, "Yukon" Youkilis, a-tingling!

Yours truly and the honorable Mr. Chadwick will be unavailable to closely follow the week-end's matches, as we will both be attending nuptial celebrations that by frustrating tradition so often interrupt the base-ball season. But thanks to the miracles of the wireless and the relentless churn of the mechanized printing-press, we shall at least receive updates that will either inspire us to raise celebratory toasts amongst fellow jolly Rooters, or send us to find solace in our post-dinner snifters.

Until next week, I am yrs. very truly,

Stuffy McInnes.

Can a homecoming end a five-match losing jag?

A shameful week-end of base-ball concluded with a harrowing sight on the score-board: Nine chapters of consecutive “goose eggs” for the Bostons. The lack of batting so appalled one dour spectator that he was moved to wonder whether the Nine had traded their man-stunning clubs for flimsy riding crops that could barely startle a mule into his trot!

Such speculation misses the true cause of our woes: It is not the lumber in the bats-mens’ hands, but the venue in which they engaged their rivals. Surely it is no coincidence that the only occasions of a triple loss to the same opponent have come in new-fangled base-ball “gymnasiums” -- better suited for bouts of sparring and wrestling than for the beauties of the stick-and-ball.

Perhaps the ceilings are trapping miasmas that befuddle our mighty swatters. Or, the lack of glorious spring sun-shine may be sapping our Grip-ridden boys of their vigor. Whatever the cause, a return to the verdant turf and gentle wind currents of Fenway’s fine park should revive the local squad like a strong dose of salts.