Rejuvenating with the Grapefruit Circuit

Ahoy Rooters. I must thank the Hon. Hurdy Chadwick for helming this fine ship of base ball reportage in my recent absence. You see, I was called away from New England unexpectedly to assist my uncle Stuart McInnes, who got himself in a spot of trouble down south. Seems he has been taken in by a real estate swindler from the neigh-on-lawless state of Florida!

It’s a depressingly common confidence game -- some fast-talking binder-boy proffers the paperwork for a Cocoa-Nut plantation befitting a Rajah, but the property in question turns out to be an infernal mess of saw palmetto and venomous vipers not worth the stamps to mail the deed. I received a cable from Ol’ Stu seeking my assistance in recouping his loss (or at least finding a greater fool to take on the plot), and within hours I was steaming south in a Pullman car.

Some good, at least, has come of this unexpected journey: I am amidst the spring-training locales of several base-ball clubs, and managed a few hours yester-noontime to observe an exhibition contest between the Metropolitans of New York and the visiting Detroits!

The red-earth of the base-paths and green of the out-field were a vision of Heaven here on Earth! The whizzing of a delivered pill and the crack of ash against horsehide sounded like the Heavenly Host itself proclaiming Hallelujah! White flannel shone like hammered silver under the Sun’s benevolent rays! Steamed wieners and chilled lager paraded past my grandstand perch in an endless, delightful banquet!

I say, it was better than a belt of Duffy’s for curing the non-specific sense of malaise that often befalls a Rooter at this time of year. Alas, I must soon pack my straw boater and seersucker suit and trundle north to the still-gray environs of Maine, but I will be buoyed by the knowledge that Opening Day of the 2009 base-ball contesting season is a mere 10 days hence.

Play ball!

Rooters: Sharpen your pencil-leads and prepare your score-cards!

To-day, at last, the Red Stockings begin exhibition contests under the Florida sun. Their first opponents are that fine, hale bunch of lettermen from Boston College, seen above in a studio photograph. These lads are sure to be awestruck from simply sharing a diamond with their professional balling heroes.

But for myself and Hurdy Chadwick, the afternoon's drama shall not be found in the accumulation of "runs" and "outs." Instead, we intend to scrutinize the action for tantalizing portents of the season's fate.

- Will "High Pockets" Lugo begin demonstrating his case for the starting short-stop role when he first toes the dirt of the batter's box?

- How will hometown hero Rocco "The Woonsocket Rocket" Baldelli overcome the mysterious nerve condition that prevented him from participating in regular contests last year?

- Can our aggregation of veteran and yannigan hurlers command the pill with vim and determination -- especially the fallen-angel of the staff, "Beanpole" Buchholz?

The time for idle speculation and academic debate is over. Deeds on the diamond will provide the answers we've long awaited. Huzzah!

Alas, the mid-day contest is not being carried on the wireless. However, a syndicate of newspaper men have apparently commandeered a disused ticker-tape device from a renowned industrialist recently ruined in the Bank Panic of '09. They've adapted the machine to receive telegraph updates from sideline reporters, and will dutifully recount the action through the miracle of modern electronics.

What a time to be alive!

Who will man between the sacks?

In this spring-time training season, there is one competitive question humming around the Fort Myer's practicing grounds: What mitten-wielder will man the stretch of infield dirt between the second and third sacks?

Will it be Julio "Highpockets" Lugo, the composed and genial gent whose glove is more decent than his noodle bat?

Or will Jed "Square Face" Lowrie step to the challenge and retain his roster position from last season?

At this point, the outcome of the competition will be anyone's guess. But Hurdy Chadwick, for one, believes it will do Highpockets a world of good to pit mitten against mitten, and ash stick against ash stick, to prove he still has the mettle for the job.

Go get 'em, heroes in flannel!

So the doctor said, "That's not MY stethoscope!"

Jubilation abounds at the City of Palms, where sun-dappled base-paths are freshly chalked with lime and ready for the dusty exploits of our home-town team.

But on this day, the park was whisper quiet, with nary a horsehide pill being lobbed nor a pine stick slicing through citrus-scented air. The gents were inside, lined up in their stocking feet, stripped to their underclothings for the spring ritual of Doctor's Day. Tongue depressors were stockpiled by the basketful and athletic girdles gathered in all shapes and sizes.

One Red Sock was conspicuously and curiously absent from the gay proceedings, however. Curt Schilling, that Teutonic rabble rouser whose prowess from sixty-feet-six-inches belies his penchant for all things gut-busting and Bavarian. A bum shoulder seemed the reason, though no more was forthcoming by Herr Schilling or his trusted club-house attendant, Lem "Sneaky Charles" Barlow.

Be assured that word one whispered will find its way into the Full Circuit Clout.