The Gilded In-Field

For he’s the jolly-good fellow! “Little Hands” Pedroia, also known amongst wags as “El Caballito,” has been recognized for prowess on the diamond!

Pedroia now hoists a glittering golden glove on his tiny hand, a symbolic acknowledgment that even the hottest smash or sharpest grasser can’t escape his entrapment. He joins “Yukon” Youkilis, himself a gold-glove first-sacker, in creating a gilded in-field.

When the Florida sun again shines on the dirt of the base-paths during spring training, expect the reflection from the right side to be blinding!

Welcome back, Knuckles!

It's news this morning, good ol' Knuckles Wakefield is back in the fold. I speak for the legions who are fanatics of that hero's shaking, waffling and confounding hurling when I say "Huzzah, and welcome back!"

Stuffy and I are well prepared for the darkening season, and will draw close to the hot stove and report any and all Red Stockings news to our tens of readers.

Until then, we remain, faithfully yours,
Hurdy Chadwick and Stuffy McInnes,
Proprietors,
Full Circuit Clout

Requiem for a season

Take down the bunting.
Launder the flannels one last time.
Feed the remaining wieners to the hogs,
And un-tap the kegs of ale.

Pack up the leather and horsehide.
Incinerate the hexed ash-clouts.
Shoot out the lights and let the turf go dormant,
For base-ball is ended at the Fens.

Muffle the drums and silence the Rooters’ chorus.
Roll up the pennants with a bracing of naphthalene.
Lock the turnstiles behind the last exiting man,
And sweep the discarded score-cards into the ash-heap.

Lay in a quantity of Duffy’s.
Pull up a chair to the hot stove.
Brood on the fates of the Captain and the Colossus,
For today, the Bostons have fallen.

Godspeed to the General!

Assemble the troops before the good and virtuous Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, whose hill-top heroics in the waning days of October have become legendary. He has but one message for the flannel-clad warriors of the Boston regiment: Go forth in Victory!

The base-ball season hangs in the balance with to-night's tilt versus the formidable Floridians. One false step and those sun-kissed lads from Saint Petersburg will rain down mighty ash clouts, circling the bags with unrelenting fury. But our General has a crafty and forceful demeanor that, when all is right, makes the fairer sex swoon and the lads' knees buckle in flailing hysteria.

Let all Rooters hope the Good General brings his gunny-sack of greatness. The Nation's eyes are upon you, the commander of the mounding, the hurler-in-chief. In Beckett we believe!

Alive!

Stuffy is nearly speechless. But Rooters, this is all you need to know:

The Bostons will be playing base ball on Saturday evening.

Escape these chains!

The good lads of Boston are preparing for quite a fight this eve, when the Red Stockings engage the Floridians of the American Base-Ball League in the fourth of a best-of-seven matchup for league victors.

Today, the Bostons are in a two-games-to-one hole. One might say they are wearing the manacles of the underdog, those heavy steeled chains that apparently are binding our sluggers' hands to their leg-irons. Would that the Mighty Colossus and our Lil' Hands Pete have the strength to swing massive ashen clouts out of that abominable base-ball stade in the St. Petersburg area! Would that our hurling corps remind themselves of where "ball" and "strike" land, and how best to deliver the pill to would-be-swatters.

Tonight, let us remind our wobbly pill-man, Knuckles Wakefield, that all of Boston beseeches him to grasp victory with his well-leathered hurling hand.

Onward, Bostons!

NB: It has come to our attention at FCC that one David John Drew, whose clouting heroics against the Clevelanders were celebrated far and wide nearly one year ago this night, takes over the leading off position from our young buck, Jac Ellsbury, the human wind machine. Godspeed, David John! Round the basebaths so Little Horse and the Large Father may bring you home!

Which contest was Francona watching?

Today, like all Rooters, I am still befuddled by Skipper Francona’s decision to return our beleagured General to the mound. It was clear to even the peanut-peddlers plying the aisles that the General was “off.”

After a heroic triumvirate of clouts by the Bostons gained them the scoring edge, it was Francona’s duty to turn the pill over to the relief hurling corps. And yet, against all evidence, he instead let the General mount the hill again to disastrous effect.

I have yet to hear a valid explanation for this egregious lapse in base ball judgment. Yet one of my club-house sources told me that a messenger-boy delivered a hand-written note to Francona in the midst of the contest. My source could not read the entire note, but saw a signature scrawled on the bottom of the card.

It read: “G. Little.”