The All-Star clouting contest of Monday night dragged on longer than a Sunday sermon at the fundamentalist church, and the All-Star contest itself was an exercise in mock excitement. Indeed, the match had its points of interest, but what bragging rights does a Rooter have if his league is the victor? Shall I telegram a friend from Atlanta, sending my condolences that his team has the misfortune of being part of a league that regularly sucks eggs?That collection of vaunted heroes in flannel that assembled in fair St. Louis on Tuesday evening had it's own aura and mystique, but it did nothing to rival the excitement a Rooter feels when his Red Stockinged heroes are led from the stadium tunnels to the emerald expanse of Fenway Park. I am ready for victories to land in the "win" column, and for each hurled pill and ash clout to be marked on scorecards in gossamer teardrops. Let it be so, good friends!
Alas, one more eve of waiting. Perhaps to-night I will stoke up the charcoal and prepare a supper of seared sausage and cold ale whilst I draw portraits from memory of the faces of each Boston hero, from the aquiline nose of Jason "The Argonaut" Bay to the devious and impish grin of Dustin "Lil' Hands" Pedrioa. But come tomorrow, I will put my ink wells in a drawer and store my sketch pads out of harms' way.
For tomorrow, base-ball is back.
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