Catch the spirit!

Get a load of these gents in Beantown! Laughing up a storm whilst playing the pinch-and-tickles on the dug-out steps!

And why shouldn't they? On a day when some prefer to prove their physical prowess in a footrace through the avenues and byways of our fair towne, I rather enjoyed the relentless offensive assault taking place in the Fens.

Give our heroes a cheer and a slap. In four tilts, our base-ballers sent the team from America's Hat home with just one "Victory" notched. Our wayward hurler, Matsuzaka-san, proved worthy this day, launching pills that darted this way and that, confounding opposing swatters.

But the sweetest of all meats was the cacophony of ash sticks on horsehide. Clouts rang out from the concourse to the box seats, where industry tycoons and Rooters alike twirled their moustaches in glee instead of fretfully gnawing on their whiskers.

On Jedediah Lowrie! On Yukon Youkilis! On Carlton Q. Crawford, basepath speeder and amateur detective who delights in solving mysteries large and small among the clubhouse clique!

My friends, the urgency of your swatting was unmistakeable: the Boston Red Stockings are again a base-ball team, not a collection of wayward soup kitchen transients who spend their day suckling on government's ample bosom and fashioning home-made tattoo pencils out of old bicycle spokes and writing ink.

Onward!

Post-script: Greetings, Darkman. Make yourself welcome, and fare thee well!

Prayer for The Colossus

A grim day in Rooter Nation, as the battle-weary base-ball men return to Boston from Baltimore and the end of what seemed like an inexorable cross-country odyssey. The Colossus, David Ortiz, was reported to have a sort of tubular malfunction in the wrist area that will require a prolonged vacation.

The news must have reached the Bostons by last night's eighth inning, certainly immediately following a joyous rally that led to a one-plate "lead" on the Baltimores. But that rally was for naught as Hideki "The Shadow" Okajima laid damp noodle after damp noodle across the batting area, allowing for hit after hit (and a difficult-to-swallow "walk"), eventually culminating in a two-bagger that cleared the Oriole-clogged base-paths.

The outing was the worst our Hero in the Dark had experienced in the Land of Plenty. But we mustn't judge his hurling abilities, for it was certain that the real culprit behind his musty delivery was the news that his hulking and heroic team-mate, The Colossus, was not to rejoin the team for some time.

Indeed, it will be of no surprise should all of the Royal Rooters in Boston and compass points beyond approach their jobs without full focus, as the health of The Colossus is surely weighing on every mind from Methuen to Machias. It surely is on the brains of both Hurdy Chadwick and my esteemed colleague Stuffy McInnes.

Here's hoping regular treatment and routine tonics of Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey will cure whatever ails The Mighty Colossus.

A Battle "Hymn" to Rattle His Rivals

Rarely after such a triumphant week-end of matches will I be at a loss to describe the diamond heroics of our Bostons. But this day, my thoughts are still consumed by a startling experience of aural distress at our fine ball-park.

Custom holds that many of our reserve hurlers decamp from the bull-pen to the rousing strains of a jig, or a bold brass march. But the appearance of our mighty south-pawed set-up man Okajima was announced by a new composition resembling nothing like music these ears have yet heard.

First came a shocking blast, like that of a steam whistle. Next was a relentless pounding such as that of a pneumatic steel punch through one-inch plate, followed by staccato reports of such hellish fury that I can only liken them to the sound of a rivet gun accident at the Iron Works. Above the din, the deranged shouting of a feral army, much like the fabled “Rebel Yell” that gave the Union boys a shiver in the War between the States.

Being one more comfortable with the gentle harmonies of a fine Rooter’s glee-club, deciphering these phrases proved beyond my abilities. But this infernal ditty must be a well-considered bit of gamesmanship intended to befuddle opposing bats-men. Indeed, a gentleman of medicine in my acquaintance assured me that the jarring sounds would rattle the vital humors in the ear canal, engendering tiny bubbles that upset the equilibrium necessary to square the bat against the pill.

It is an interesting trump card to hold in your hand – but such a frightening cacophony could render certain spectators in the grand-stands senseless, particularly those from the gentler sex! I trust they will use this weapon sparingly.