A race to the finish!

Last week, as I was sunning my paleness and nursing ale after ale on a remote Maine island, I had little knowledge as to the coup young Theodore Epstein was cooking up in his Fenway office. He most certainly wore his Number 2 to a nub scratching out various "trading" scenarios, and reportedly considered offering J.D. "Old Aches and Pains" Drew to the Padres of San Diego for a barrel of sorghum and a case of hermetically sealed Zwieback toast.

But fate intervened and, when the dust settled, the Red Stockings were among the few trade deadline victors in all of base-ball. Coming to Boston was Victor "Loose Limbs" Martinez, the crowd-pleasing, switch-swatting catcher-cum-first-sacker that has so energized the Indians of the Ohios. Since joining the Heroes in Red, Loose Limbs has performed admirably, engendering plaudits from the men Rooters and swoons from the ladies in attendance at the ballpark.

Above all, it seems Loose Limbs also has provided a much-needed spark in the clouting department, as Boston's offensive ensemble has begun swatting with the urgency of a man trapped in a gibbon cage.

Meanwhile, it is good-bye to Justin Masterson, the gangly deliveryman who has showed much promise on the mounding in his short time with the Major League Club. Alas, we hardly knew ya, Ol' Master-tone! Cheers to your future hurling exploits in your home state, and may you forget your refined pretzel delivery upon next facing our heroes of the Fens!

Other assorted pieces of the dug-out puzzle were put into place, including a farewell to Mr. Adam LaRoche, and a huzzah to Casey Kotchman, yet another able-bodied first sacker. (Perhaps Mr. Epstein believes that the key to championing is a roster replete with first sackers, whose lithe frames and dextrous mittens may offer hints of excellence in other areas of fielding?)

Today begins a difficult stretch for the Bostons, as the face a two-tilt set with the Champs from Tampa, and a four-gamer with the hated Yankees of the Bronx. Indeed, sitting one-two-three atop the American League, the Yankees, Red Stockings and Tampas are snuggling together for what is certain to be a clever finish to the regular season. August is early, but the nip of the September air is soon to be felt among our flannel-clad heroes.

Friends, this is when base-ball matters. This is when prowess with the pill and the ash stick separates he-men from street lads. This is for the whole kazoo, chums!

Let us be victorious!

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.