On-ward to victory!

Behind the throaty cries of "Charge!" from our heroic Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, our corps of clouters and hurlers are set to storm the grassy enclave of Fenway Park in just one hour's time to do battle with the hearty Tampa Bay youngsters.

But today's tilt is different from any regular clout parade or twirling demonstration: For today is Opening Day, the day that the freshly laundered bunting is hung from the architectural escarpments of beautiful Fenway, and when the Green Monster has been brushed lovingly with a new coat of milk paint. The suds vendors have cleaned their tapping lines, and the frankfurter salesmen have warmed their voices to compete against the cheering throngs of Rooters -- some of them ladies! -- packing the steerage seats in center-field.

It is true that no other day at the ball-park is filled with the unbridled joy -- and requisite pomp and circumstance -- of an Opening Day. Today's ball-game brings to mind an adventure Stuffy and I undertook last year, when we steamed to North Station and transferred on many a trolley to reach the field before the Opening Day ceremonies began. I urge you to relive that day through our humbe diary entries here and here. What a day to be a base-ball "fan"!

Indeed, to-day is a day to thank the Good Maker for all that He has wrought, from the green-hued Firmament in the Fens to the heroic flannel-clad warriors who don the Red Stockings 162 times each season. Huzzah to the clouters and hurlers! Rooters, rejoice! For to-day the bleak winter comes to a close and spring begins a-new.

Play ball!

Opening Day Guest Posting: Hoo-rah, Base-ball! Hoo-rah, Red Stockings! Hoo-rah, Spring!

In honor of the grand return of the contesting season, Hurdy Chadwick and Stuffy McInnes have invited a few fellow Rooters to share their thoughts on the state of Red Stockings base-ball.

Our next guest posting comes from Bricks Kibley, a fellow keyboard-clatterer we've counted as a colleague since we were mere yannigans on the junior scribbling circuit. Bricks is a fine gentleman who is known to enjoy a "jar" and smoked meats while rooting for the local nine. Welcome, Bricks! What say you?

Across our great land, half-forgot sounds perk the ears of teamsters and oxen in half-furrowed fields, robin red-breast on ochre-colored town greens and, in our great metropolises, street urchins and the robber barons at whose spats they stoop. The crack of the ash! The pop of rawhide smacking mitt! The wiseacre patter of our flannel-clad boys of summer-time! Yes, dear reader, America’s pass-time again begins anew!

Fanatical followers — “fans”, as the youth would have it — of Bean-town’s bean-ball Red Stockings begin salting away cod for pick-nick ventures to Lansdowne’s beloved haven of hardball: Fenway Park. Meantime, the despised pin-stripers of New Amsterdam summon their legions to a just-erected edifice, a palatial tribute to excess the like of which hasn’t been seen since Sodom — a stadium fit for the Grand Turk himself!

The rumor-vine murmurs that the hated Yankees re-erected their hardball house to accommodate the cyclopean cranium of Alex “Purple Lips” Rodriguez, the Croesus-like girth of newly inked hurler Carsten “Sandbags” Sabathia and the barbers, chemists surgeons and other medicine “quacks” who attend Sabathia’s brother-in-arms, “Arm Jalopy” Burnett. Surely the Bostonians will play Joshua to this Jericho! Or my name isn’t...

Bricks Kibley

Soggy Bunting!

Alas fellow Rooters, Mother Nature has again trumped our quotidian lives!

With wind and rain coursing toward Fenway's environs, the Red Stocking Base Ball Club has delayed today's tilt until tomorrow at 4:05 p.m. Winter's long, dreary grasp has us in its clutches for another day.

Stoke the stove and pour another dram of Duffy's in preparation for the longest night of the year. In the interim, we will continue to share musings on the return of base-ball from our esteemed guests.

Courage!

Opening Day Guest Posting: Col. Westbrook

To-day is a fine day in the life of any red-blooded Rooter from Scituate to St. Agatha. Indeed, to-day is the day the Boston Red Stockings grace the emerald field for the first of many tilts of this year's heroic campaign. To commemorate this auspicious day, Hurdy Chadwick and Stuffy McInnes have invited a few fellow Rooters to share their thoughts on the state of Red Stockings base-ball. Please read Chippy Burdock's Guest Posting here.

Our next guest posting comes from Col. Westbrook, the redoubtable and lettered chronicler of local goings-on in Westbrook, the town discovered by his forebears on the banks of the might Presumpscot. Welcome, Col. Westbrook, and play ball!

Col. Westbrook
Westbrook, Maine

I share the company of so many Pine Tree Staters who so anxiously await this after-noon’s curtain-opener against the juvenile Tampas that I’ve exhausted my third piece of pure spruce gum of this hour. But amid this modest correspondent’s clamoring for the Red Stockings’ eighth campaign of the New Century lies a nugget of blasphemy so coal-colored I fear only a figurative peeling away of my matrimony-fattened breast can bleach the madness that so plagues me.

To-day, the sixth day of the month so fittingly inspired by the Latin equivalent of "the opening," should be a day sprinkled with confetti cut from the scraps of Samuel Dennis’s paper mill and marked by a celebration flowing so heavily from The Elevenses onward that my cranium is induced to a smooth state bettered only by one of Old Man Haskell’s finest productions.

Alas! This day in the month christened by Eliot as the cruellest month is made only crueller by a reminder of the cruellest day in my Red Stockings’ rooting career: 16 Dec. '04.

During the harvest of that year, the Red Stockings sprung a well so deep it flooded the long-droughted crops plaguing its fanatics' bosoms. Stout men pilgrimaged to the family plot to drip salt onto the granite graves of their perennially defeated ancestors. Paper City citizens everywhere--from the Alms House and Farm on Saco to The Elms on Cumberland--whooped for joy. Even the stern taskmistress Ms. Bertha Rice from Forest Street School was spied clicking her clogs in thin air!

Yet! For celebration on that ignominious winter's day, we Pine Tree Staters were disgraced with the presence of: Mark "Earmuffs" Bellhorn, a pauper’s "Lil’ Hands" whose habit of donning a Chester Greenwood-configured "batting helmet" does not redeem the fact that he could not grasp The Colossus’s ample undergarments; Leonard "Azzurri" DiNardo, an antecedent to ‘Ol Aches and Pains who spent more time that fateful year hopefully gulping Duffy’s Pure Malt Whiskey than he did sipping the bubbles of victory, stood in for our heralded warrior Der Spiegel; and D.A. Mirabelli, a player whose career highlight consists of a Pullman’s ride from the sun-splotched City of a Whale’s Vulva and a subsequent constable-led scramble atop the cobblestones of the Hub, sat astern the Forest City fire wagon instead of our steadfast Capt. Varitek. The only respectable "rep" sent from the Bostons was the marble-faced Youkilis, though I submit he was then more of the promising--and abbreviated--"Greek God of Walks" than the everyday grizzled "Yukon" we rooters have come to salute.

For all the annual chilly spring hours I have spent huddled in my parlor distinguishing the cackle of the wireless tube from the crackle of the evening fire, this is how the Red Stockings rewarded me! For all the annual stifling summer minutes I have spent lounging before the wireless on my back porch tolerating only my britches and tenement "tee shirt," this is how the Red Stockings rewarded me! For all the semi-annual autumn mornings when only a "shot" of Duffy's could solve the dark night before, this is how the Red Stockings rewarded me!

Oh, bustling boys of the Bostons: Why can't I quit you?

Opening Day Guest Posting: Chippy Burdock

To-day is a fine day in the life of any red-blooded Rooter from Scituate to St. Agatha. Indeed, to-day is the day the Boston Red Stockings grace the emerald field for the first of many tilts of this year's heroic campaign. To commemorate this auspicious day, Hurdy Chadwick and Stuffy McInnes have invited a few fellow Rooters to share their thoughts on the state of Red Stockings base-ball.

Our first guest posting comes from fellow scribe and Boston gadabout Chippy Burdock, a man's man and a font of Red Stockings knowledge. Welcome, Chippy, and play ball!

Chippy Burdock
Boston, Mass.

The bunting is strung gaily ‘cross the box seats and rafters of our lyric little bandbox, but from those festive pleats drip torrents of rain water. And, alas, Jove continues to pelt the gathered Rooters with angry droplets thrown down from the firmament!

Base-ball may yet be played on Fenway’s meticulously mowed lawn to-day, or yet it may not. As we wait with baited breath to see whether the Bostons will take the field, prepared to do battle behind “ace” hurler Joshua P. Beckett, there is naught all to do but listen to the wireless and wait.

As we do, it is worth pondering the merits of the men and women of the New England Sports Network, those dogged legmen, shouters, and opinion mongers who help bring the noble game to life each eve’n’ing in our living rooms and parlours.

Of course, the voice we’ve longed to hear these interminable winter months belongs to Mr. Jerry “Doggy” Remy, a hale and hearty fellow whose time spent playing for the Bostons, three decades past, did not result in a surfeit of circle clouts, but whose fleet feet and spry glove at the second bag were inestimable assets to a team that could well have been World Beaters in 1978 were it not for the dunderheadedness of one Donald Zimmer.

Over the years, Mr. Remy has proven himself an astute student of the game, and as his crown of hair has thinned atop and his jowls have drooped (as they do in later life), he’s become a teacher of the intricacies and finer aspects of the sport. He’s a happy sort, presiding from his perch over Red Sox Nation as he hawks truckloads of personalized sundries and puffs cigar-ettes on the sly between plays.

Sharing the talking booth with “Doggy,” is Don “Announcer Man” Orsillo. Don is a rather excitable chap, given to peppering his broadcasts with punning world play such as “down by way of the K” and “home run.” He is a pleasant man, beloved by all for his cheerful demeanor, dulcet speaking voice, and bouts of uncontrollable laughter.

A native of our great home state of Maine – having grown up playing ice-hockey in Lewiston, near the mighty churning Androscoggin – Tom “Tee See” Caron is a fine and capable host, manning the desk in the network’s Watertown headquarters and enlightening we Rooters with spot-on analysis and interviews with assorted Knights of the Keyboard. Assisting him in these endeavors is Dennis “Ecky” Eckersley a Hall of Fame hurler with a unique, self-styled vocabulary ("high cheese," etc.), a shock of stylishly feathered hair, and the finest and most luxuriant moustache since William Howard Taft enacted his Dollar Diplomacy in 1909.

Finally, reporting from the nooks and crannies of the park, often bringing news via her micro-phone while standing in Canvas Alley, is the flaxen-haired Heidi Watney. Many chaps (including, rumour has it, a certain backstop who dons the tools of ignorance for the Bostons) count Ms. Watney as a beauty non-pareil. Her knowledge of the sport may be merely adequate, but she surely is a pleasant sight to behold as the summer sun shines warmly upon her pretty features, and she’s proven adept enough at soliciting post-game stock quotations from Bostons who’ve helped win contests with dramatic late-inning clouts or Herculean hurling.

Hopefully this team will enjoy many such moments throughout this coming season – wind, rain or shine.

Weather's a-comin'

The meteorologists at the local weather station have forecasted wetness for the next seven days. Will the Red Stockings open this year's campaign on time, or will the lush greenery of Fenway have to wait for a sunny day to host this year's opening contest?

I sincerely hope it is the former, for Stuffy and I have laboriously shifted our schedules to accommodate the day-time tilt. And should rain come, your friends Stuffy and Hurdy will be stuck drinking flagons of ale and enjoying cocktail weiners by the dozen without benefit of listening to base-ball over the crackling wireless.

No, sir, the ale and wieners alone do not make an afternoon. After months of pining, I am ready for base-ball.

Please let me have it.

And the Home-Town Field Was Festooned with Bunting

Opening Day dawned brightly as yours, Hurdy Chadwick, and Stuffy McInnes boarded the locomotive, which chuffed through fields and yards to the Hub of Boston. City side, your intrepid correspondents joined the cheering throngs and rode the street-car to the hallowed grounds of Fenway Park.

The scene encircling the ball-ground was festive and gay, with mounted police-men keeping order as rooters piped up in choruses celebrating the fair home team. The air was redolent of sausages, peppers and onions, and many men took drink early in the day.

Inside the walls of Fenway, the park was festooned with bunting and shining with fresh coats of lacquer. The crowd of 34,000, many of them ladies, cheered for the glee clubs, which, assembled on the grass field, treated the rooters to rousing songs in honor of our heroic base-ball men.

As the crowd settled into the spacious Fenway chairs, a brass band struck up a jaunty rhythm as brightly colored banners were unfurled from the upper seats in left-field, signifying the Bostons' triumphant season as World Champion clouters and glove-men.

As the festivities continued, members of other Boston sports-teams walked the hallowed grass of the base-ball pitch, laden with trophies of past achievements.

Bold aviators in their new-fangled flying machines barnstormed the park, eliciting gasps of delight and awe from the assembled spectators. The men and ladies of the park let out collective murmers of appreciation as the champion hurlers and clouters entered the field in their brilliant team flannels to receive their shining Victory baubles. Joy and jubilation spread through even the most hardened hearts of the John Q. Publics in attendance.

It was a gay time in the old ball-park, and not a voice was heard over the public announcer's throaty baritone as he implored the assembled crowd to welcome a ceremonial hurler. Billy "The Hermit" Buckner entered the park to deliver the first toss of the horsehide. His return came more than two decades after his well-known muff in the Bostons' World Series bid against the New York "Mets". The gentleman hurler was embraced by each and every rooter in attendance, his gaffe evermore washed away in the sunlight of Opening Day.


The spectacle of the ceremonies was one that neither your Hurdy Chadwick nor Stuffy McInnes will soon forget. But a game was to be played! Following Buckner's southpaw delivery to the home-plate, the shout was to "Play ball!"

The Bostons Triumph in Inaugural Match!

The season of match playing began today far from the local ball-field, with the Boston squad joining the Athletics of Oakland in a diplomatic expedition to the island nation of Japan. Despite the foreign environs, both teams played with vim and determination, offering a very fine display of the beauties of the game.

It must be admitted that Boston starting hurler and returning native Matsuzaka-san began the game poorly. Displaying little command of the pill, Matsuzaka issued five bases on balls during his first four frames. The Oaklands helped themselves by making several conclusive hits, including a shocking four-bagger gotten by the second batsman of the match.

Meanwhile, the Boston bats remained stymied until the 6^th inning, when noted swat-artist Manny Ramirez hit a magnificent drive for two bases that allowed two Bostonians to cross the home plate. There was much celebrating on the field and clamor from the assembled spectators. A subsequent hit made by the yannigan Brandon Moss brought Ramirez full-circuit, and knotted the score in a three-run “tie.”

Alas, the Bostons lost their advantage quickly, when lanky twirler Snyder served up the sphere on a platter for Hannahan of Oakland, who clouted it over the wall for another two Oakland runs.

Just when the game seemed lost, young Moss toed the dirt in the batters box and declared his presence again, smashing a drive out of the park to notch the equalizer in the top half of the final inning. It was his first-ever four-bagger for the major league club, and certainly one that will be recounted for years on both sides of the Pacific Ocean.

The feat was even more impressive considering Moss was a late addition to the starting nine, after Ol’ Aches and Pains Drew became a late scratch. It seems he’s suffering from a bout of dreaded lumbago -- most likely caused by tight quarters during the long steamer trip overseas.

With both clubs recording four runs, a tenth inning had to be played. Again, Ramirez delivered a merciless blow to the old pill, sending it caroming off the out-field wall and allowing two more of his club-mates to round the bags. It proved to be the edge the Bostons needed to prevail on this day, a memorable opening day, from the faraway land of Japan.