A Dark Night of Duffy's

The nine have failed to notch another victory since The General's stirring charge against the Gothams.

For several frames, "Nothin' Doin'" Jonny managed to deny the Tampas any trips around the pillows, and Rooters' hearts swelled with each perfectly aimed pill and cloutless "whiff" of the enemies' ash. Then in one chapter a wheel fell off Jonny's trap, and former Hub Hero "Dolty" Damon swatted a run-plating "hit" to tilt the tally in favor of the Floridians.

Now a desultory April rain has delayed this evening's contest, which this reporter confesses he was dreading. "Simple Jack" Lackey has failed to rise above the standards of a factory-league pumpkin-tosser in his recent contests, making him an unlikely candidate to snuff a losing jag. But perhaps an additional day to work with the medicine ball or slather his limbs with liniments from the Orient will prepare him to deliver horsehide with vigor.

Meantime, Rooters warm themselves with Duffy's and wonder when the marching bands and color guards will again parade proudly through the Fens, honored to support a victorious squad.

Pain! Torment!

O, the despicable head-aches! The fuzzy tongue of whiskey and ale! The punishing and agonizing pain from a day that began with so much hope and splendor!

Indeed, yester-day was the debut of the Flannel-Clad Heroes from the Hub, ready and willing to take on all comers in 162 tilts from Boston to The City of Angels. Your humble correspondent, Hurdy Chadwick, gathered with several like-minded gentlemen in putting our ears to the wireless and listening, breathlessly, to the exploits of our Gang of Base-Ball Wonders.

The day began gaily, with much mirth and several cup-fulls of tonic and cheer. The mood soured as quickly as the horsehide caromed from the Texans' bats into the arms of their ever-loving rooters. Our starting hurler, Nothin' Doin' Lester, did nothing to prevent clouts from ringing out from seemingly every direction. An added insult was the muff-prone antics of the infield defensemen. Though their flannels clearly were embroidered "BOSTON", it was if they were a band of derelict street urchins who had learned the rules of base-ball just minutes before the nine innings began.

The dreadful missives from the wireless announcer meant one thing: Cups of Duffy's, one after the next! The result: A fitful night's sleep and a day spent in fog, despite the clear blue April skies above.

A luncheon of smoked meats did little to ding the effects of the previous nights' fugue. Alas, we will persevere, and resume our post in front of the wireless for the next tilt. Let us hope it brings us relief, rather than us seeking solace in nerve tonics and ale.

In the woods, the Rooters cheered!

The above photo-types were snapped this week-end in Winthrop, Maine, at a sylvan site on Little Narrows Pond where Stuffy, Hurdy and an assorted band of miscreants gathered to raise glass after glass to the Topsham Ham Fighters, that talented band of pond-hockey enthusiasts of which we all belong.

On Friday evening, a-fore the campsite was thronging with various ladies and family members intent on swimming and carrying on, the men dug holes, pondered glasses of Duffy's and tossed metal washers in an ingenious game dubbed "O'Connor". (It is most certainly a regional game, perhaps a variation on the Midwesterner's popular game of "Cornelius".)

But as we doled out generous drams of Duffy's and punctured several canisters of ale, we also bent our collective ear to the traveling wireless, which L.A. Gray, captain of the Ham Fighters, had carted down to the waterfront after fashioning a block-and-tackle system from several stout fir poles and hand-wound roping.

We listened intently as Jonathan "Nothin' Doin" Lester twirled a glorious set of ace-less frames, and engaged in rousing choruses of cheers as Dustin "Lil' Hands" Pedroia belted a winning two-sacker in the eighth frame.

The following evening, we sat quietly by the fire-light, the Duffy's having left its mark on our now-fragile constitutions, and listened as the Red Stockings see-sawed with the visiting Kansas City. The visiting yannigans scratched ace after ace despite the ash sticks of the home team supplying much early clouting and plating of lads. Indeed, it was as if the Red Sox hurling corps had taken an early leave and left the pill to a gaggle of fresh-faced pennant-hangers from the nearby colleges. In the end, our moustache-chewing was not required, as the Bostons regained their menacing stance at the home pentagon. Another win for the heroes in Red and Blue!

And Sunday, after a morning of sweeping pine needles from our britches and trucking southward to home, I again settled in for a hurling demonstration from the Good Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, whose pill tossing set the gold standard among pretzel men around the league. The ale was cold, the camaraderie excellent, and the tavern most welcoming.

From the woods to Westbrook, a weekend to recall when the snow begins to fly and I replace my cotton duvet with a Pendleton blanket. Summer, I love thee.

Three cheers for a "sweep"!

The Bostons manhandled the visiting Torontos in capital style over the course of three games, serving notice that they will not allow their Northern rivals to enjoy divisional pre-eminence for much longer.

“Nothin’ Doin” Lester displayed fine mettle on the mound, surrendering a mere one “run” to the flighty bird-men. Our crack squad of reserve hurlers picked up the thread and sewed the sack shut.

Meanwhile, our batsmen continued their assault on hapless Toronto twirlers, with our own resident alien Jason “Argonaut” Bay once again making the loudest clout. A forceful message indeed that this mild-mannered Canadian gives no quarter to a squad representing his homeland!

To-night, the Bostons cross bats with the Metropolitans of the National League, in the annual diversion of inter-league contests. Tho’ fielding a weakened aggregation, the “Mets” ride forth this evening behind their own General, the spectactular-hurling Johan Santana. Will the returning Matsuzaka-san measure up to the task?

Rooters wait in keen anticipation!

We shan't take this lying down!

After yesterday's thrilling wallop of the upstart Tampa Bays -- and the courageous hurling of the good Gen. Joshua P. Beckett -- to-day's tilt was one step back for the boys in Red.

Jonny "Nothin' Doin'" Lester certainly was doing something. And that "something" apparently was not prodigous hurling, for our twirler offered free window dressing to the lads from the Sunshine State rather than confounding pretzel deliveries of the pill. Though Nothin' Doin' had some agreeable moments, the Tampa Bays put ash stick after ash stick on the old horsehide, knocking it to and fro about the Fens.

It is clear that my constitution is not up to snuff at such an early point in the base-ball season, as this one "loss" has muddled my head and made me reach for the Duffy's on more than one occasion. Still, one must remind oneself that it is far better to follow a losing base-ball contest than to toil at a menial task or other mundane drudgery. And for that, I am certainly thankful for all that this season of base-ball promises to offer.

To-morrow, fresh tubes for the wireless and a refill of the Duffy's jug. It is time to settle in for a season of hurling and clouting!

Let's go down to Florida Town!

The slush piles continue to grow in the northeast, but Red Stockings hurlers and their prodigious mitt-men already have escaped the winter wind.

As I write, our heroic batterymates from all points in the country are chuffing on railroads toward sunny Florida. Buchholz, Lester, Beckett, the gang's all here! Saito, Smoltz and Penny, the new crop comes with freshly oiled mitts and a willingness to learn the game the Bostonian way -- with courage, grit and flaggons of Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey at the ready!

Tomorrow, the Lushing Season ends and Spring Training begins. Glory to be alive, for spring can't be far behind in New England!

To the play-offs!

Huzzah to the Gentlemen Red Sox, that band of lovable ball-hurling and hide-swatting urchins. They came from near and far, from lands of hot sunshine and lands of towering evergreens, from base-ball meccas and rural outposts that knew more of digging post-holes than tossing knee-buckling curving balls.

But let no-one take this away from our home-town team: We are going to the play-off sectionals, where the best of the best will be pitted against one another--just one of four squads from the vaunted American League to reach such a lofty goal. (Indeed, our frequent combatants from Gotham have missed that goal for the first time in a baker's dozen years! Double huzzahs from the New England region for that stroke of good fortune!)

The first opponent? Likely the Angels of the Anaheim region of Los Angeles, where orange groves multiply like so many of John Lackey's strike-outs. Indeed, this season, the Bostons have fared dismally against this band of southern Californian sun-seekers, going just one win out of nine chances.

But a betting man would be hard-pressed to lay his chits on another team than the Bostons in October. Who else has the Colossus? And what of Lil' Hands Pedroia, the Bostons' fancy-handed loudmouth (who also swings a prodigious club!), and the Beard of the Ages, Yukon Kevin Youkilis? And from Gen. Joshua P. Beckett and "Nothin' Doin" Lester to leather-clad stalwarts Jedrick "Square Face" Lowrie and Alexander "Benchy" Cora, the team has talent to spare, and will certainly be a fright for any squad that faces them in the cool air of early October.

Rest assured, Stuffy and I will be tuned to the wireless, ears pressed to the speakers as we shush the talking and send the children out of the room. Why, it's the play-offs! Celebrate in good health!

Thunder on the Base-Paths!

Hurdy Chadwick and myself joined the throng of happy Rooters in Fenway’s commodious out-field bulwark yesterday for an afternoon of steaming wieners, refreshing suds and delightful ball-playing from the local nine. Adding to the merriment was the Boston Club’s formal recognition of Maine’s Rooting Regiment, and seeing the Pine Tree State’s blue standard sailing above the grand-stand, amongst the stars and stripes and a phalanx of League and World’s Champion banners, brought a tear of pride to my jaded scribbler’s eyes.

The morning’s drenching rains made the day seem better-suited to mud grappling than base ball, but we began our trek southward with hopes that the new-fangled weather prognosticators were correct in their assessment that precipitation would end before our heroes climbed from the dug-out. What science these “weather-men” must have at their disposal, for as sure as you’re born, the 1:35 start time arrived with narry a mist falling!

In fact, the only thunder heard that afternoon came after a decisive eighth-frame blast from “Colossus” Ortiz. To that point, the Bostons and Torontos had been ensnared in a high-class flinging duel, with our Ace, “Nothin’ Doin’” Lester matching Roy “The Wizard of the Pill” Halliday hurl for hurl. But the Colossus made sure to clip the wings of the recently high-flying blue birds.

Ortiz’s mighty ash delivered a cannon-shot to the right field, where the young patrolman made an ill-advised “dive” in his efforts to corral the orb. As the pill skipped past his prone, helpless figure, the Colossus stoked his locomotive engine and roared around the second-bag to earth-shaking effect. Before the Toronto third-sacker could receive his prize, The Colossus had settled safely on the pillow!

Mayhem and triumphal songs erupted from the assembled Rooters! And tho’ he may have desired a brief nap at the corner, Ortiz did not remain long in “scoring” position. The next bats-man, “Yukon” Youkilis, delivered a deep “fly” that allowed our Colossus to amble to the home-plate and notch the game’s decisive run.

Such was our abiding joy from the spectacle that Mr. Chadwick and myself did not even need a restorative pause at one of the innumerable gin-joints, honky-tonks and dubious road-side food sellers along the U.S. Postal Route that links Boston to Maine.

Forged in the fires of a Pennant Race

There’s a chill tinge of autumn in the New England air, and the Boston aggregation of base ball talent are within hailing distance of top honors in their Division!

The signs are un-mistakeable: We are rapidly closing the course of the long contesting season, and from this point each match is charged with Championship intensity. The finest ball-men, such as our brawny hurler “Nothin’ Doin’” Lester, meet the challenge with aplomb, and grace the diamond with the good and steady work that makes for winning ball.

Lesser sporting gents are rendered weak in mind and sore of heart by the high stakes. Why, just read the latest cables from the West Coast, where the frustrated New Yorks are resorting to fisticuffs when their batting and twirling fails them!

To-night, another high-class flinging contest is afoot, with the Tampas’ crafty southpaw “Babyface” Kazmir matching up against Matsuzaka-san, whose penchant for surrendering bases-on-balls must be brought under control.

Yukon pans for gold!

In the second consecutive night of tormenting the Texan ball-squad with his terrifying ash clouts, The Beard of the Ages, Yukon Kevin Youkilis, proved again that he is a man of uniquely elevated athletic status.

His statistics for the evening read as follows: Four batting chances, three successful "hits", two aces batted in, three aces scored, six total sacks.

Truly prodigious from the bearded maniac who spends his off-season tramping through the underbrush of remote Canada, hauling logs and chasing elk as is his wont. His work ethic shows no sign of slowing, and Rooters around the world are the luckier for it!

Post-script: I would be remiss to not mention the laudable efforts by "Nothin' Doin'" Lester, who hurled and twirled a true diamond gem last evening, and Jedrick "Square Face" Lowrie, whose increasing clouting prowess is matched only by his gloved skills.

I smell a coming cavalcade of wins for the OldeTowne Team!

Return of the Native

A low, hungry feeling came over me this morning as I considered the plain truth of the previous evening. Another fine hurling performance by “Knuckles” Wakefield answered by his club-mates with listless swatting. Another late-chapter failure by the bull pen. Another defeat for the Bostons in a faraway ball-park.

But the time for gloomily chewing on our moustaches is over, as the Nine are set to begin another contest on the unfriendly Pacific coast. and to-night, we have a special card up our sleeve: Our starting Hurler is no stranger to the environs of Seattle.

He is a lad from the land of loggers, raised among the mists of Puget Sound and the timber-scented currents that blow down from the Cascades. Mounting the mound this evening should feel to “Nothin’ Doin’” Lester as much like a “home” match as any at Fenway Park, and his twirling should perform accordingly. Lead on, Lester, to a sorely needed road triumph.

The Antidote for Untimely Clouts

A confession: The first contest of this triple billing between the Philadelphias and our Bostons struck fear in the McInnes heart over the clouting potential of the upstart competitors from the City of Brotherly Love. An evening’s worth of scalding swats from the “Phillies” found me questioning the ability of our hurlers to keep the pill safely inside the confines of the ball-field.

I must have skipped my daily draught of nerve-tonic, because those fears dissipated faster than a specter in the warm glow of the friendly sun as soon as our boys returned to the tournament grounds. The old base-ball adage is indisputable: Momentum is only as good as your next match’s starting twirler.

And what fine twirling we saw! First, “Nothin’ Doin’” Lester proved that his commanding “no-hit” performance was no sideshow trick. Next, the yannigan Masterson continued to impress the professional club with his mastery of the old horsehide. Both starting hurlers befuddled the mighty swat artists of the opposing club, while their team-mates answered the call with a barrage of white bullets that had the Philadelphias chasing their own tails while our boys sauntered around the diamond.

But the greatest performance was that of “Dancin’ Johnny” Papelbon, who completed both contests like the Grim Reaper himself, clad in gray flannel to collect the souls of the unfortunate bats-men at the plate. His hard tossing was untouchable, surely making even the most confident swatters wish that their mothers had never met their fathers.

As much as we love a hard smacked two-bagger or the eponymous full-circuit clout, games such as these remind us that there is no purer joy in all of base-balling than tyrannical twirling at the hands of a master like Papelbon.

Live by the clout, die by the clout

Like the lyrics of that oh-so-popular tune of the day, the Bostons left their luck in Cincinnati and their heart in Terre Haute.

The terror of the Philadelphia Philadelphias was on full display yesterday evening, as the Most Vigorous Players of the last two years cried "Charge!" and put their team in the head. Jimmy "Dynamite" Rollins and Ryan "The Temp" Howard put on an offensive showcase that hasn't been witnessed in the City of Brotherly Love since John Adams famous accosting of Ben Franklin in Independence Hall over the latter's lewd behavior with the courtesans of gay Paris.

To the moon went the orb! One after one other went the pill into the bleacher seating as the Philadelphia Philadelphias ratcheted up the swatting fury from the very first pill hurled. Poor Bartholomew "El Gordo" Colon! The corpulent hurler must have washed away his tears with molasses and chewing candy. A dismal time for the Bostons, indeed.

Tonight, "Nothin' Doin'" Jonny Lester paws the mound against an elderly Jaime "Pappy" Moyer, the aging southpaw whose hurling arm is held together with bailing wire and gumption. A fine June evening at the ball-park, and an even finer evening for the Bostons to take liberties with the Philadelphia Philadelphias!

On Curling and Crying...

Shame! Shame on us both! Like infants deprived of the teat, Hurdy Chadwick and Stuffy McInnes are in the throes of sadness and fury.

In truth, your intrepid and inky Rooters Hurdy and Stuffy had opportunity to ride the locomotive south to Fenway Park and give passes at the turnstile for yesterday's winning game against the Kansas squad, but personal and professional appointments kept us homebound.

And oh, how we are paying for our short-sighted error! Four years or more from now, we won't remember what mundane tasks kept us cloistered in Maine, far from the hooting and rooting at Fenway Park, and far from a magnificent gem of a match turned in by the hurler formerly known as Seattle Slop. Indeed, with a line of naughts across the board, Jon Lester, our devious, crafty and well-balanced man on the mound, is well deserving of a new moniker. Should he from now on be known as The Cascade Kid? More is Lester? Or, perhaps simply "Nothin' Doin'" Jonny? Let us hear the voices of the fans, and please correspond with Full Circuit Clout to offer your suggestions.

Meanwhile, from the depths of a sickbed, wherein Lester was in full clutches of The Grip, to hurling a game where not one Kansas bat made a hit into the field must be among the most heroic stories ever to come from the base-ball diamond. It surely eclipses the reigning hero tale of third-bag monitor Punches McGinley, who employed just a pinch of chaw and a dill pickle to rouse a lady Rooter suffering a mid-inning bout of the vapors.

It most certainly can!

Question posed by the inimitable Stuffy McInnes: Will the return to Fenway net the heroic World Champions a winning match after a slurry of tourist losses? Indeed so, my good man!

A notch in the win column is surely the tonic the home-town boys need to get their ash bats cracking. And though those sticks were largely silent in last night's epic twirler-on-hurler demonstration between Johnny "Seattle Slick" Lester and Roy "Smeck" Halladay, we were pleased to see fine play on both sides of the frame. Each pitching man delivered pill after pill, their deliveries obfuscating the horsehide and making the hitters contemplate the intersection of physics and athletics on the walk back to the dugout.

To make matters more difficult for the hosting team, Ol' Aches and Pains Drew came up lame early in the match, complaining of a touch of the gout after huffing-and-puffing his way to the first bag after connecting bat to ball. No whispers of his condition have circulated.

In all, each side managed just one hit through the eighth inning. In the ninth, it seemed as if the ball struck by Vernon "Not David" Wells, the Canada's Team's feared slugger, was destined for the open grass of Fenway's emerald turf. But huzzah to Li'l Hands Pedroia! The pint-sized pugilist struck a blow to the Canada Team by spearing the pill and delivering it with great gusto to the Beard of the Ages, first-base-man Kevin Youkilis. What thrills from the second-base-man who must quaff quarts of can-do before each match!

The heroics certainly rubbed off on The Beard, as the lasts of the final frame shone "Victory" on the home-team thanks to a sharp drive into the center-field, which helped The Colossus round the third bag and make his way homeward to applause from all the Rooters in attendance.

A fine way to begin a set of matches in Fair Boston!

A Win For the Ages!

To the base-ball gods, the Boston Rooters salute and lay down their appreciations for such a well-played match!

The night's gamer had in the home half of the scoreboard the Cleveland squad, whom the Bostons bested in last year's Championship Series after losing three games and winning but one. Twirler Jake Westbrook pitched for the natives, while Jon "Seattle Slop" Lester took the riser for the visitors. Neither delivered the pill effectively, though Westbrook emerged from near-scrapes in many innings, including the first. Old Seattle Slop varied his delivery, but fooled few of the opposers.

Indeed, the match seemed lost for the Bostons after Seattle Slop hucked mush-ball after mush-ball at the natives, allowing multiple home-team runners to stamp on the final base in consecutive chapters. Fortunes happy, however, as Julian "Tele-phone" Taverez ponied up to the challenge of his rivals, eliminating three consecutive lumbermen with three strikes apiece. In all, he knocked down four men in two-and-two-thirds innings. Huzzah, Tele-phone!

But with a two-notch deficit, the visitors had no quit in their eyes. The Beard For the Ages stirred trouble in the eighth inning with a decisive full circuit clout. The ball skyed into the chill of the evening and landed earthbound into a crowd packed at the left field concessionaire. Alas, that plating was all that would occur in that frame.

But into the final inning of the evening, when all was at its most dire, Julio Lugo led off the frame with a taunting double-bagger off the home-team closer, Joe "Soapy" Borowski. What followed was base-ball at its best: A run manufactured by bunt and sky fly ball, the latter walloped by the diminutive Dustin "Spats" Pedroia.

A "tie" game!

But not for long, as the Collossus improved his average with the second of the evening's two base knocks, and The Wonder stepped up to the plate and smacked a drive that could favorably be compared to the Great Pyramids, the Hanging Towers of Babylon or the Cable Cars of San-Francisco, California! In fashion of The Wonder, he rounded the bases with jazz hands flapping, a game-ending sight to see for the Rooters who had steamed to Cleveland to glee with the Old Town Team!