Our newest rocket

There is a giant clatter, and a spark and flame shoot o'er the ground when the rocket lifts off. What an exciting and wonderful time to be a fan of all things aeronautical!

But pay not attention to the night sky, and forget the celestial bodies that enrapture those of us lucky enough to glance through a shining looking glass. For the stars for which we care are kept firmly on the ground, in the confines of a diamond, with green, green grass underfoot and the Sunday sun shining above.

And to-day there is one star we are discussing: The Rocket. And no, good readers, not this Rocket. Indeed, the fair City of Boston has gained itself a new Rocket, and this Rocket is dubbed the Woonsocket Rocket, and hails from the nearby southerly enclaves of Rhode Island.

It's a local boy done good, and I, for one, will cheer lustily for our new No. 5 throughout the coming campaign!

The Monster from the Bronx

There is a menace wandering the streets of the Bronx, with muscles and flesh part human and part science fiction. But rather than petrify and curdle even the strongest of wills, this madman is among the most revered swatsman in all of base-ball.

What gives?

This gives, I tell you.

Indeed, Alexander "Slaps" Rodriguez, it has been reported, is guilty of that cardinal sin of doping one's body with pharmaceutical-grade gibberish. Instead of sticking with the tried-and-true and remedying his maladies with Duffy's and a pinch of salt-cured ham, Slaps took the easy way out, sticking his rump with the types of needles best left to the bums in the Bowery or those caustic and nihilistic song-scribes from Tin Pan Alley.

And who is to blame? Why, good readers, we are to blame. Stuffy and I carry the weight of this. For our periodical is called "Full Circuit Clout," and we are single-handedly contributing to this nation's fundamental fascination with the long-distance swat, the moonshot four-bagger, the sweet sassy molassey. It is I, old friends, that takes responsibility for championing the full circuit clout above other base-ball pursuits such as mitten-wielding, field running and pill tossing. Oh, to take a step back in time and rearrange this disaster!

Alas, not a thing is possible. Slaps is forever tarnished. And truly, am I right to feel the shame of leading him to ruin? Is celebrating the most heroic of all sporting accomplishments -- the full circuit clout -- truly to blame for pushing Slaps toward his fateful decision? Am I not just a pawn in this opera of skullduggery and intrigue?

I am not complicit, dear readers! I neither procured the doping agent nor stuck Slaps in the hindquarters with a druggist's hypodermic. Let his fall from grace be his punishment, and let Full Circuit Clout continue to celebrate all that is good with the sweet four-bag roundtrip from each of the game's most accomplished swatsmen!

Gentlemen, start your engines!

Once these lads unload their milk jugs at Oakhurst Dairy in Portland, they'll motor south over the Piscataqua and through the coastal farmlands of New Hampshire to the bustling city of Boston.

The destination is Lansdowne Street, and Friday's job is thus: Pack the catching mittens of our trunk-legged Captain, and the ointments and slings for our fragile outfielder. Assemble the thick ash clouting sticks of our home-town Colossus, and the garish night-time clothing of our eccentric but loved hurler. Make haste to pack the salt pills and water jugs, for the Floridian sun is sure to wreak havoc with our Heroes' wintering temperments.

The trucking enterprise will include a caravan of flatbeds and diesel janes running the length of the eastern seaboard to deliver the goods to the Gulf Coast enclave of the Red Stockings' spring-time home.

Indeed, the entire Red Stocking squad will convene from far and wide in Fort Myers in just a few weeks' time, and the first sign of the end of the Lushing Season and the beginning of the hard work that precedes a 162-game season of professional base-balling.

Rest assured, Rooters, that intrepid reporters Hurdy Chadwick and Stuffy McInnes will deliver to you the finest of discussions regarding our Olde Town Team, and will cheer in the earliest sprouts of the newest base-ball season.

Huzzah, the grand game is nearly back!

The Gift That Keeps Giving

With the Yuletide season reaching its apex, we Rooters are as frenzied as the urchins awaiting a visit from Jolly Old Saint Nick.

But while they dream of sugar-plums, jelly candies and the latest mechanical tin-toy marvels, we hope that the Oligarchs that control the Red Stocking Base-Ball Franchise will deliver us a special gift for the coming season: Perhaps a slugging first-sacker shipped in from the Western Coast? Or another fire-balling hurler to complement our ranks of horsehide heroes?

Yet amidst the aching want, I was reminded of the true "spirit" of the season. For today, un-announced, the letter-carrier delivered to me a special package by parcel post. Inside, lovingly secured in a bed of cushioning chaff, was a bottle of Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey, sent to me from none other than Mr. Hurdy Chadwick.

A warming gulp filled me with the glow of the Christmas star, and reminded me that base-ball will come again, bringing rooters together in fine company for songs and cheers and even the occasional hoots of derision when our boys on the diamond fall short of their goals. No matter who wears the flannels next season, we will be rooting. We few. We Happy Few. We band of brothers!

So let the wee ones enjoy their stockings full of trinkets and sweets. I shall be preparing a special Wassail this season with Duffy's finest elixir. The green of the Tannenbaum shall stand in for the green fields of the ball-park until the Spring returns -- and with it, our timeless game.

Consarnit!

Crummy chumps. Those rotten dirt clods! I'm hopping mad -- so perturbed my face is breaking out in the hives, and I'm sure to spend the rest of the week-end with an oatmeal-covered cloth resting about my head and neck.

The reason for my dismal mood? Those hucksters in the Boston ticket offices of Red Stockings Incorporated. Those Huns have taken the last of my Saturdays with their infernal waiting rooms and phony promises of "ticketing chances for matches through-out the upcoming base-ball season!"

Thanks for nothin', ya crumbums. Phooey on you.

Stoke up the hot stove, fat man!

I am not a patient man. And the recent weeks of inactivity on the Red Stockings front has made me irritable and ornery. My entreaty to the corpulent cigar chompers on Yawkey Way: Make some news for the boys in Boston with base-ball on the mind, the lads waiting on every tavern stool who want to know who next season's hurler-in-chief will be.

Winter is upon us, the snow a lily-white blanket keeping warm our fair emerald field in the Fens. But after the bottom of the ninth chapter, baseball does not vanish. It stalks the subconscious, waiting to be fed a diet of spinning horsehide and ash clouts. I beseech thee, Theodore Epstein, feed that hankering!

Strike up the band!

Tune the banjo and polish the plectrum, for happy days are here once again in the Old Town of Boston! Word filtered north this afternoon that Lil' Hands Dustin Pedroia, he of the Most Vaunted Player award given at this year's Annual Base-ball Player's Dinner and Consortium, has applied pen nub to paper, his little hands scratching his signature on the dotted line of a contract that will bind his services to the Boston Red Stockings for a whopping six years' time!

And let me tell you, that little ball chaser will get his fair share of clams in the deal. I'm not one to shoot off half-cocked on pecuniary matters, but i have it on good faith that the key word to this deal is simoleons. You heard it from me: Lil' Hands has enough loot to hire a craftsman full time to create custom mittens!

What a time to be a follower of the squad! What a time to be a lover of scarlet hose and the ol' horsehide! What a time to be alive!

Long live Lil' Hands!