In last evening's tilt against the Detroits, the squad in the early frames appeared as if they had just emerged from a double-shift at one of the many jalopy factories that dot this burg by the shores of Lake Saint Clair. They were seemingly asleep at the machinery of bats and balls, swinging their ash sticks lazily at each pill delivery. Their knees went wobbly as the horsehide dipped through the striking zone, and many a batsman staggered back to the dugout after being called "out" by the lead umpire behind the pentagon.
In truth, what afflicted the Detroits, those hale and hearty men from Michigan's fair land? Friends, it was neither the sleeps nor the summer caterrhal. Indeed, it was the devious and disciplined hurling of our own field commander,
Gen. Joshua P. Beckett. The Good General allowed our home-town heroes to rack two five-spots of "runs" whilst being stingy and allowing zero for the Detroits.
And the General was not in the mood to accept guff from undisciplined gents: One Detroit attempted a "bunt" by squaring the ash to the pill, which resulted in a dribbling "hit" that for his good fortune rolled out of bounds. Such a strategy is in clear violation of a true base-ball-man's code of ethics when facing a hurler that has given up not only zero aces, but also zero "hits" on any one delivery. The General's response? A particularly crafty curving delivery that made Mr. Gerald Laird look the fool, and a beanball to the fair Mr. Laird just two chapters later.
And that, good sir, will educate you on the folly of tarrying with Gen. Joshua P. Beckett!
Update from Michigan: Boston 6, Detroit 3 in the last of the fifth. The Red Stockings posted six aces in the third chapter, including two scored without even the benefit of putting bat on ball! What a time to be alive!
Yukon Youkilis, the Beard of the Ages, will sit away from action for five tilts thanks to his fury in last night's donnybrook.
Fresh from the miasma of despair in the Bronx, the Red Stockings apparently decided to engage in some base-ball play last evening. The final: Bostons 6, Detroits 5.
In last evening's tilt against the Detroits, the squad in the early frames appeared as if they had just emerged from a double-shift at one of the many jalopy factories that dot this burg by the shores of Lake Saint Clair. They were seemingly asleep at the machinery of bats and balls, swinging their ash sticks lazily at each pill delivery. Their knees went wobbly as the horsehide dipped through the striking zone, and many a batsman staggered back to the dugout after being called "out" by the lead umpire behind the pentagon.
