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.
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