The Littlest Hero!

It is rare these days to see full and bushy moustaches amongst New England's gentlemen. Indeed, the once-lush pushbrooms of Red Stockings Nation have been reduced to a mottled landscape of perturbed follicles.

And for what reason? The answer is quite clear: The opening chapters of the Red Stockings' base-ball season has been a most difficult fortnight for all involved. With defeats piled among a smattering of victories, it is without surprise that most of the region's whiskers have been mercilessly twirled and chewed by anxious Rooters from Mattapan to Madawaska.

O, but the gilded lining of this angry cloud has been revealed! And he has the littlest hands of them all! Friends of the Flannel, our savior has made himself known, and he is Dustin "Lil' Hands" Pedroia!

To be sure, Lil' Hands' swatting average is not the top of the pickle barrel, and his physique is more child-like than man-sized. But look deeper into Lil' Hands' person and you will find a heart that beats more strongly than any assembled cadre of men. Peer into his eyes and you see a wondrous tableau as if gazing through a looking glass at Nirvana itself.

Lil' Hands' guile, courage and unflappable charisma have elevated him to a place of reverence among Rooters and Flannel-Clad Heroes alike.

Take, for example, the events of last eve: Following a poor series of tilts against the often woeful Seattles, Rooters were in their cups with despair. A match against the most vaunted hurler of the young season left many with agitation, indigestion and a general feeling of uneasiness.

Along came Lil' Hands to convince Rooters to spit their whiskers and instead use their piehole for more savory pursuits -- such as shouting and leading the Home Team to victory! This Knight of the Keyboard speaks the truth of Lil' Hands more lyrically than I.

For now, let us be thankful for the bounty that comes in small packages. Huzzah for Lil' Hands!

A tantrum without base-ball!

The All-Star clouting contest of Monday night dragged on longer than a Sunday sermon at the fundamentalist church, and the All-Star contest itself was an exercise in mock excitement. Indeed, the match had its points of interest, but what bragging rights does a Rooter have if his league is the victor? Shall I telegram a friend from Atlanta, sending my condolences that his team has the misfortune of being part of a league that regularly sucks eggs?

That collection of vaunted heroes in flannel that assembled in fair St. Louis on Tuesday evening had it's own aura and mystique, but it did nothing to rival the excitement a Rooter feels when his Red Stockinged heroes are led from the stadium tunnels to the emerald expanse of Fenway Park. I am ready for victories to land in the "win" column, and for each hurled pill and ash clout to be marked on scorecards in gossamer teardrops. Let it be so, good friends!

Alas, one more eve of waiting. Perhaps to-night I will stoke up the charcoal and prepare a supper of seared sausage and cold ale whilst I draw portraits from memory of the faces of each Boston hero, from the aquiline nose of Jason "The Argonaut" Bay to the devious and impish grin of Dustin "Lil' Hands" Pedrioa. But come tomorrow, I will put my ink wells in a drawer and store my sketch pads out of harms' way.

For tomorrow, base-ball is back.

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.

Who's minding the store?

Hullo? Hullo?

Is there any-body here?

Please forgive the dingy appearance of Full Circuit Clout these past days. Your genial proprietors Hurdy and Stuffy, Esqs., have been plundering the depths of their inkwells and scratching parchment after parchment to satisfy their day-do-day employers.

Indeed, such joy as is taken from maintaining this enterprise, your friends of the pen haven't kept up the store as we'd like. That said, we assure you, dear reader, that we haven't forgotten our mission, to produce a periodical where "we celebrate this fine pasttime of base-ball, a sensible game for sensible men, where morals reign and comradeship is paramount."

In the coming days and weeks, we will make certain to weigh in on matters of import to the base-ball fandom the world over, including:

• Manny "The Wonder" Ramirez' running afoul of league inspectors, and a rumored visit by the Pinkertons to inquire about unlawful shipments of contraband whisky from our friends in Canada.
• Dustin "Lil' Hands" Pedroia and the state of his beleagured frame. Will the extra days' rest refill his flagon of grit and determination to overflowing?
• The crafty willow-wielding by our offensive juggernaut, Jason "The Argonaut" Bay
• Our cadre of scouts in the garden, who have of late patroled the green grass of Fenway's outer-field with speed and aplomb
• Will our Colossus return? "Fear not," say base-ball compatriots!
• The redemption of our stout-limbed Captain Varitek, who was content on a recent night to hoist the entire team to victory thanks to a well-timed swat of his ash club.

All that and much more in store for you, dear reader. Until then, onward to victory, you flannel-clad heroes of the Red Stockings!

Dukes up for St. Patrick!

The lads added a dash of green to their home whites to-day, in a jaunty salute to old St. Patrick, the patron saint of four-ply drives and corkscrew hurling.

And what a day to be from Boston! The heroic Red Stockings laid bare those crosstown yannigans, the Minnesotans, to regain the lead in the Mayor's Cup competition. What's more, fun was to be had at the expense of Lil' Hands Pedroia, when The Colossus Ortiz tricked a little man in green to wear old Lil' Hands' numbers.

Indeed, good friends, a satisfying time was had by all at the ball-park confines this day! Levity was on special, and shenanigans were being heaped by the plateful. What a time to be alive -- even yours truly indulged in a few thimbles of Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey as the gents started hurling and twirling. (Truth be told, I am now tight as a tin drum, good people!)

To-day, celebrate. On the morrow, it is a return to the business at hand.

Injured before the battle starts

Every good general knows not to put the troops in danger in advance of a campaign. Yet two of our fellas from the dirt ring -- second sacker Lil' Hands Pedroia and between-sacker Julio "High Pockets" Lugo -- have been afflicted by muscle strains and other assorted maladies.

What gives, Skipper? Have you been putting the lads through their paces in a too-accelerated manner? For instance, is High Pockets' water-on-the-knee the result of too many "jumping jacks"? Several prominent sporting physicians have declared such calisthenics too impactful on a man's joints, yet our Skipper insists on the merits of stand-in-place exercises.

Perhaps this infernal World-wide Baseball Consortium tournament is to blame for Lil' Hands' strain to his sidewall. It certainly makes sense that the rambunctious rabble-rouser, ol' number one-five, would exert himself to the straining point to show the international sides the true depth of our base-ball league's Most Vaunted Player.

All's well that ends well, we hope, as Monday broke with news that the setbacks may not threaten our dirt-ring dandies. In fact, Lil' Hands seems positively sure his sidewall is in fine fettle.

A brief pause, and the campaign continues.

Spring profile: Penny for your thoughts?

Bradford Albersquela Penny: Six feet and four inches of 30-year old, right-handed hurling.

But beyond his towering physicality, what does Bradford -- or "Nickels", per his rambunctious Los Angeles benchmates -- offer to the collection of Red Stockinged heroes assembling on the southern Gulf Coast of Florida? Others have opined, but let me add our thoughts. Herewith, a list, divined from my well-placed sources in Fort Myers and telegraphed northward with all due haste:

• Nickels enjoys a dandy game of cribbage, and has been seen ribbing Lil' Hands and Manager Terrence over their card-playing acumen.
• He is the most recent National League base-ball hurler to strike out four batters in one inning -- a mind-bendingly difficult feat, yet one that never fails to excite the crowded Rooters.
• Nickels is reunited with his former hurling chum, Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, who together slayed the Gotham Yankees in the World Series six years ago. It is surely fate that has brought both aces to Boston, which was on the brink of despair after losing so cruelly to those Gothamists that same six years ago.
  
• Nickels is not a sock garter man. No, he has vowed his allegiance to the contemporary elasticized stocking. A modern man, without doubt!

Please welcome Bradford "Nickels" Penny.

We at Full Circuit Clout will bring you more "Spring profiles" as the Red Stockings begin their springtime campaign in sunny Florida.

Strike up the band!

Tune the banjo and polish the plectrum, for happy days are here once again in the Old Town of Boston! Word filtered north this afternoon that Lil' Hands Dustin Pedroia, he of the Most Vaunted Player award given at this year's Annual Base-ball Player's Dinner and Consortium, has applied pen nub to paper, his little hands scratching his signature on the dotted line of a contract that will bind his services to the Boston Red Stockings for a whopping six years' time!

And let me tell you, that little ball chaser will get his fair share of clams in the deal. I'm not one to shoot off half-cocked on pecuniary matters, but i have it on good faith that the key word to this deal is simoleons. You heard it from me: Lil' Hands has enough loot to hire a craftsman full time to create custom mittens!

What a time to be a follower of the squad! What a time to be a lover of scarlet hose and the ol' horsehide! What a time to be alive!

Long live Lil' Hands!

The Gilded In-Field

For he’s the jolly-good fellow! “Little Hands” Pedroia, also known amongst wags as “El Caballito,” has been recognized for prowess on the diamond!

Pedroia now hoists a glittering golden glove on his tiny hand, a symbolic acknowledgment that even the hottest smash or sharpest grasser can’t escape his entrapment. He joins “Yukon” Youkilis, himself a gold-glove first-sacker, in creating a gilded in-field.

When the Florida sun again shines on the dirt of the base-paths during spring training, expect the reflection from the right side to be blinding!

Escape these chains!

The good lads of Boston are preparing for quite a fight this eve, when the Red Stockings engage the Floridians of the American Base-Ball League in the fourth of a best-of-seven matchup for league victors.

Today, the Bostons are in a two-games-to-one hole. One might say they are wearing the manacles of the underdog, those heavy steeled chains that apparently are binding our sluggers' hands to their leg-irons. Would that the Mighty Colossus and our Lil' Hands Pete have the strength to swing massive ashen clouts out of that abominable base-ball stade in the St. Petersburg area! Would that our hurling corps remind themselves of where "ball" and "strike" land, and how best to deliver the pill to would-be-swatters.

Tonight, let us remind our wobbly pill-man, Knuckles Wakefield, that all of Boston beseeches him to grasp victory with his well-leathered hurling hand.

Onward, Bostons!

NB: It has come to our attention at FCC that one David John Drew, whose clouting heroics against the Clevelanders were celebrated far and wide nearly one year ago this night, takes over the leading off position from our young buck, Jac Ellsbury, the human wind machine. Godspeed, David John! Round the basebaths so Little Horse and the Large Father may bring you home!

V for Victory!

Indeed, the Anaheims spent a fruitless evening Wednesday swatting nothing but air as "Nothin' Doin'" Lester spun his webs of horsehide confusion. A fine way for the Bostons to announce themselves to the Los Angelenos!

There was much reveling after the victory according to the Hollywood reporters. "Lil' Hands" Pedroia--El Caballito in the flesh--celebrated in style at the Brown Derby, and at one point was good-naturedly accused of being "handsy" with the kitchen staff. Meanwhile "Yukon" Youkilis took in the scenes at one of the many moving pictures studios and in the end was featured in a newsreel bit starring none other than famed warbler Cornelius Smith, or "Old Smitty from Hartford," as he's known east of the Mississippi! What fun for our heroes from Boston, who spend more time clad in flannel and battling base-ball foes on the diamond than enjoying the sites and smells of good old U.S. America!

Alas, while Thursday was a day of rest and relaxation, today's squad buckled back down to business, assembling at the ball-park at an early hour to commence preperations for tonight's all-important matchup. This evening, Boston fans will warm the wireless tubes for a 9:30 p.m. showdown between Matsuzaka-san and Anaheimer "Big Erv" Santana.

What will come? Not one person knows! But know this: Hurdy and Stuffy and their assembled cronies will root, root, root for the gentlemen in red stockings, hoping heartily for a Boston homecoming with two matches stored tightly under the squad's collective belt. Moustaches will certainly be chewed, flagons of ale quaffed, and various meats gulleted by the gang. For baseball calls!

Stay tuned, good friends...

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!

Napoleon in Flannel!

First, a tip of my boater to the Wobblies and other labor agitators who secured for us hard-working stiffs an extra day of leisure at the end of our summer holiday season. My lack of dispatches during the past week-end can be explained by my refreshing visit to a summer cottage colony here along the rocky coast of the 23rd state, where communication devices are limited to steamer-mail deliveries and carrier pigeon.

But not every worker spent the recent days lazing about in an ale-and-steamed-crustacean fug. Indeed, our tireless second-sacker has continued to amaze Rooters and old base-ball men by pulling trick after trick from his bottomless gripsack of talent.

“Little Hands” Pedroia deserves a new moniker for his heroic exploits, for there is nothing “little” about his presence in a ball-park. His clouts can fell a forest of opponents! His leather can stop any hot smash or sizzling grasser ticketed for the right-side of the diamond! Even the demure Mrs. McInnes has noted the joy with which he whirls about the pitch, remarking to me that he plays like a youth-league urchin who has yet to realize his physical limitations -- nothing but arms and legs and fearless determination.

He is our Napoleon, intent upon leading the grand army of red stocking’d soldiers to another World’s Championship banner. We can do naught but follow him to glory.

A return to form

After last night's disheartening loss to the pale hose of Chicago, I was feeling gloomy about the Bostons' clouting skills. Except for a tremendous wallop by our magnificent midget second-sacker "Li'l Hands" Pedroia, not one of the nine seemed able to scuff the old pill, let alone strip it of its horsehide.

A few chapters into this evening's contest, and the pattern was the same. Weak taps, rainbow "fly" balls, and flailing three-strike "outs" left the Bostons with another awful "goose egg" on the score-board. Such was my dismay that I even beseeched Mr. Chadwick, "What's become of our batting?"

Well, the base ball gods must have heard my whinging and decided to teach me a lesson. In one frame, the ruddy-ankled roustabouts put on a classic assault from the batting-box: Speedy Ellsbury laced a "grounder" through the gloves of the sprawling Chicago fielders; Capt. Varitek followed with a solid single; Ol' Aches and Pains proved why his eye for the incoming orb is second-to-none, recording a base-on-balls; Li'l Hands once again weilded his large lumber for a run-scoring swat.

The decisive blow came, of course, from "Colossus" Ortiz, who swept the diamond clear of Red Stockings with a two-bagger that caromed off the left-field bulwark! Advantage, Bostons!

Jac Ellsbury's four-ply drive in the next frame seems to confirm that the lad is finding his stroke again, which is a portent all Rooters should find as comforting as a fine cigar and a leather arm-chair. Stuffy has been humbled to-night. I won't again doubt the dynamite in the Bostons' bats.

Giving up ground to Gotham

All too suddenly, the Fenway Park that has for the first one-half of the base-ball "season" been a house of mirth and playful frivolity has become as dour and humorless as the soup salesmen on Boylston Street.

And for what reason? In what manner have the Bostons given up run after run to the Anaheims and the New Yorkers, with just a brief layover in Victory Land with a three-game thrashing of the Seattles? As we wait for the first pitch to be twirled and hurled in tonight's Boston-New York tilt, let us survey the American League: The Bostons are sandwiched like luncheon meats between league toppers Tampas and the advancing New Yorkers.

The answer, good pals, is unclear. What is clear is that the collective base-ball heroes of the Boston Red Stockings must regain their vim and vigor. Rooters from Pawtucket to Portland need to see fellows like Lil' Hands Pedroia and Jed "Square Face" Lowrie quaffing flagons of grit at each turn on the diamond. They must see clouters like The Colossus and The Wonder swatting pills into the grand-stands and bleacher areas of each ball-park the Bostons visit. And the fellows in the club-house before each match must remember why they play base-ball, a sensible game for sensible men, where morals reign and comradeship is paramount.

Regroup and redeploy, Good Boston Fighters!

The curse of the Sunshine State

O, lovely summer sun, that disappears when the mighty Bostons march into the home of the Tampa Bay tormentors. O, cruel irony, that the squad giving our fair base-ball heroes such a prolonged case of agitation carries the moniker of sunshine! For everyone knows these days of the Bostons' unfortunate performance when shielded from the life-giving rays of the firey orb!

Indeed, the Bostons' dismal appearances in the Sunshine State have given Rooters little in which to revel this base-ball season. Consider the heroic night by the Lil' Hands Pedroia, in which he belted a four-ply drive and a three-bagger followed by a pair of gutsy two-sack punches. What reward does the bantam basher receive for his ash-stroked goodness? A corps of hurlers that offer meaty pills to the hungry swatters of the Tampa crew, gagging up a two-plate "lead" and leaving the Bostons in a difficult pinch.

It is last of the eighth chapter and the wireless announcers' glum voices are those of the entire Rooter nation. As Hurdy Chadwick signs off to prepare his night-time routine of Duffy's Pure and salted pork, he asks Rooters and U.S. Americans alike to plead to The Almighty for base-ball heroics to return to the arms and ash batons of the Boston squad.

Will we wake tomorrow to hear that the Bostons made a thrilling escape from the dark clutches of sunless Tampa Bay, Florida? That much is unclear. But following this unfortunate stretch of matches, the Olde Towne Team must pull up their collective britches to face another foe tomorrow: The Gotham Yankees.

Onward, gentlemen!

Clout! Clout! Clout! Clout!

In Sunday's deciding match between the Bostons and the Reds of Cincinnati, there was one single, immutable truth recognized by the thousands in attendance: Trotting out a starting hurler named "Homer" is not in a team's best interest.

Indeed, home-runs were the order of the day for the crack Boston squad, with even the littlest of the clouters swatting the pill over out-field fenceposts. "Lil' Hands" Pedroia and “Navajo” Jac Ellsbury burst four-ply drives from their ash sticks, and crafty veteran J.D. "Aches and Pains" Drew continuing his torrid affair with the full-circuit clout. Add a deeply powdered shot by Covelli "K.O." Crisp, our pint-sized pugilist, and the Bostons' order was shown to be particularly robust amid the sweltering Ohio summer sun.

But he-man heroics was not the only recipe in the kitchen. For the Bostons' fleet feet provided an extra dose of vigor and another means of posting numbers on the score-board. Take Ellsbury, the gazelle of the roster, whose snatched both second and third base in succession in the first inning after beginning the chapter with a one-bagger. That twin burgling surely placed the Cincinnati's on their collective heels, for the team never recovered and ended the day with nary a "run" on the board. Final score: 9-0, Bostons.

Today, the Bostons continue their swing through the unfamiliar National League parks as they visit the home of the Philadelphia Philadelphias. An exciting match, to be sure!

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 plague upon this house

Instead of locker-room chairs, a club-house boy may ponder wheeling gurneys into the Fenway Park home of the Bostons, fluffing pillows and tucking in shawls to keep the once-heroic swatters and twirlers at bed.

Indeed, the Bostons' base-ball staff is in the full clutches of the dreaded Grip, with symptoms ranging from rosy skin to noses filled to bursting with effluvium. For the second evening in a row, the opening hurler for the Bostons was replaced at the last minute with another. In the previous tilt, David "Gap Tooth" Pauley performed well for the innings required, while last night's replacement for Matsuzaka-san, "Seattle Slop" Lester, allowed hits and plate-crossings, though was forced to hurl and twirl on only three days' worth of time since last gripping the pill.

Alas, the Bostons' six-game "streak" halted at the hands of the Anaheimians, though grit and determination was evident from the home side all through the nine chapters. Li'l Hands Pedroia kept his star rising, and the Collossus' return to form continued with a four-ply drive in the fifth chapter.

But the pressing question remains: From where is this Grip coming? Nearly every physician, every scientist and every Rooter has been asking the same question. Some have asserted it is a dangerous microbe carried on the return steam from the Far East. Others have said that we are passing through a region of star-dust, and that the minute particles are drawn into the body with every breath.

Whatever the reason may be, be mindful that the plague is decimating our Bostons to within a man of The 25. Our advice to our base-ball men: Counteract the enemy. Drive it from the system. Do not trifle with it.

In case of Grip you cannot afford to take any chances. Therefore, take that which is beyond question pure and medicinal: whiskey. Moreover, take Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey. Remember, Duffy's stands at the head of all preparations and is the only medicinal whiskey upon the market.

Onward to victory, hurlers and twirlers!

Colossal Clouts, Fleet Feet Propel the Nine to Unlikely Victory!

The evening’s contest began with the scales tipped precipitously against the Bostons. Capt. Varitek was still suffering from the ague, and would miss his second consecutive contest. Then, top hurler Gen. Beckett had to recuse himself from his mound-helming duties with a sudden case of the crick-neck!

Skipper Francona had no alternative but to hand the sphere to yannigan twirler Murphy and hope his bats-men could keep the Bostons alive for nine frames. His boys accepted the challenge with aplomb, collecting 16 hits and 7 “runs” for the victory!

Not a single team-member shirked his duty, yet the heroes of the evening were clear: “Navajo” Jac Ellsbury, one of the game’s true speed-artists, proved there is as much clout in his bat as wind in his feet by twice smashing the pill over the fences. “Li’l Hands” Pedroia was no less impressive following Ellsbury’s turns in the batter’s box, getting two-baggers in triplicate!

And on a night when the Los Angelenos were alert for the swift Ellsbury to attempt an extra base by stealth, Pedroia surprised all when he leapt from the first corner and burgled a bag! Well played, Li’l Hands.