A warm spring sun cannot un-chill the hearts of New Englanders this morning. Some bemoan the fall of our ice hockey squad. Others grimly chew their moustaches and lament the inability of their green-clad basket-ball men to seal victory in their own championship tournament.
But stopping by the local tavern for my morning whiskey, I heard the loudest argle-bargle coming from Rooters pondering the performance of our great hero, David "The Colossus" Ortiz.
This once fearsome swat artist is now a mere spectral presence in the batting-box, his ash stick no better than a willow switch in his tentative fists. Last evening, in the far away Anaheim township of the Los Angeles metropolitan region of California, our Colossus failed to make a hit in seven trips to the pentagon. Worse, he had on two occasions a full complement of red-stocking base runners just waiting for him to deliver the fatal blow.
Skipper Francona, as befuddled as all Rooters, has determined that the big man be relieved of swatting duties for the evening. In the interim, he's cabled the local constabulary, inquiring whether they have a detective trained in the latest sleuthing sciences that can uncover the mystery of our missing Colossus.
Courage, Rooters. Courage.
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