Anger Becomes Him!

An angry General Beckett is an effective General Beckett. The above tintype illustration clearly shows the after-effects of our fearless General's hurling prowess: Gothams stretched on the field, relying on their batterymates to heft their dazed figures to the dug-out.

An efficient thrashing of the New Yorks is the recipe for a fine Saturday evening. Thanks ye to our Hero in Flannel Epaulets, the Commander of the Boston Cadre, the indefatigable Gen. Joshua P. Beckett. Huzzah!

Ninety Feet to Victory

Wipe the week-end's tilts from your memory, Rooters of the Beantown Heroes! To-night, General Joshua P. Beckett will command the foot soldiers of Flannel Company A in their march on Cleveland.

I smell a Victory in the offing. Let the good General deliver his orders with haste, and his horsehides with the precision of a veteran soldier. Imagine the General staring down from his hurling mound, arm cocked like an infantryman's rifle, ready to fire his wadding!

Good General, shoot that wad! Shoot it straight and true!

The remainders of a wastrel life

In the far reaches of Maine, school-aged children often pass a lazy fall Saturday by rounding up an adolescent sow, dressing it in herringbone outerwear and leading it to suckle on a fine Burgundy.

In much the same fashion, the White Stockings of Chicago's North Side aimed to dress our once-strong Gen. Joshua Beckett not in the epaulets and gleaming medals of heroism, but in the frilly frocks and lacy petticoats of a betrothed handmaiden. And instead of quaffing flagons of grit and determination, it was as if he was hoisting a dainty cup of chamomile and brushing biscuit crumbs with a finely stitched kerchief.

Indeed, our supposedly fearsome corps leader did nothing but play patsy with the North Side swatters in yesterday's tilt. If one of the opposing hitters had proffered a jumping rope, surely our General would have deigned to skip around the Fens singing school-yard ditties.

What is our General's malady? What keeps him from commanding the pill in the same way that George Washington guided his troops 'cross the Potomac on a cold winter's night?

Never fear, readers. These are among the questions we will strive to answer as we begin the stretch run to the season's end.

The General leads, we can do naught but follow!

Watching our Gen. Joshua P. Beckett command the pill is like downing a flagon of courage alongside a huge snifter of grit!

His pretzel delivery stymied the Oaklands on a hot July evening, and his curses and jeers from the hilltop charged his compatriots to display a similar absence of mercy with their ash clouts! When the line must hold, when the troops must not break, the General is the man we need.

Let us admire this statistic: The General has recorded 7 victories and zero defeats when hurling after a team “loss.”

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.

Oh, the disaster!

Cornelius! Applebags, I say -- consarnit and phooey on this!

For what holy terror reigns when the Good Gen. Joshua P. Beckett loses his gumption on the pitching hill? Our fear-less leader, with whom any Rooter would not hesitate to follow into bloody conflict, was wronged in yesterday's tilt against the Philadelphians.

Indeed, the Freedom Fighters from the City of Brotherly Loving showed Boston's Patriotic heroes a thing or two about rising up against tyranny and breaking free from the bonds of well-hurled pills.

If only each "loss" was gift-wrapped with such a message of moral clarity.

How dare you, sir?

In last evening's tilt against the Detroits, the squad in the early frames appeared as if they had just emerged from a double-shift at one of the many jalopy factories that dot this burg by the shores of Lake Saint Clair. They were seemingly asleep at the machinery of bats and balls, swinging their ash sticks lazily at each pill delivery. Their knees went wobbly as the horsehide dipped through the striking zone, and many a batsman staggered back to the dugout after being called "out" by the lead umpire behind the pentagon.

In truth, what afflicted the Detroits, those hale and hearty men from Michigan's fair land? Friends, it was neither the sleeps nor the summer caterrhal. Indeed, it was the devious and disciplined hurling of our own field commander, Gen. Joshua P. Beckett. The Good General allowed our home-town heroes to rack two five-spots of "runs" whilst being stingy and allowing zero for the Detroits.

And the General was not in the mood to accept guff from undisciplined gents: One Detroit attempted a "bunt" by squaring the ash to the pill, which resulted in a dribbling "hit" that for his good fortune rolled out of bounds. Such a strategy is in clear violation of a true base-ball-man's code of ethics when facing a hurler that has given up not only zero aces, but also zero "hits" on any one delivery. The General's response? A particularly crafty curving delivery that made Mr. Gerald Laird look the fool, and a beanball to the fair Mr. Laird just two chapters later.

And that, good sir, will educate you on the folly of tarrying with Gen. Joshua P. Beckett!

Update from Michigan: Boston 6, Detroit 3 in the last of the fifth. The Red Stockings posted six aces in the third chapter, including two scored without even the benefit of putting bat on ball! What a time to be alive!

White washed!

When we bestowed our "Yannigan of the Week" honor on young Van Every, we surely did not expect his exploits to include hurling a frame of relief in a debacle of a base ball contest.

More troubling is the fact he commanded the pill with more aplomb than our erstwhile leader, Gen. Joshua P. Beckett. In fact, the General has appeared of late more like a buck private, and the dark clouds of concern are gathering over New England this morning.

Gumshoe, find our Heroes!

The following is an excerpt from Hurdy's latest crime-fighting serial, "The Credenza Never Lies", to be published in simultaneous installments by "Ladies' Home Journal" and "Cub Scouts Monthly".

Hey there, shadow. I've got a job for you. Twelve bucks a day, plus expenses. But lay off the top-shelf stuff -- I know you're a rot-gut kinda guy anyway. Keep it that way, slick.

Look, I need some guys found, see? One's a big galoot, six-four, two-and-a-half bills, goes by the name "Papi". Funny beard -- like a strap for an old bomber helmet. Ain't seen him since, shoot, almost two years ago. Last we heard of him, his wrist clicked something fierce when he handled the old ash stick.

Here' s another: Old Daisuke, the Terror from Tokyo. Seems he's all tuckered out from his international scene-making -- which is the last time he hit on all sixes. These days, well, it's the other guy that's doing the hitting, and old Daisuke's the palooka.

And while you're at it, Dick, put out an APB on the General. Seems old Beckett's high tailed it after his run in with the commish. Can't blame him. Old Selig came down pretty hard on the General after he let loose that Anaheim torpedo at Bobby A. If you find him, keep him away from the bearcats -- those hot-tempered Doras will just wear out our good General!

Any hoops, us and the guys, we need these gents here, see? Or else those Bronx bums and Tampa Bay teetotalers will have us over a barrel. Hell, half the team is up to their ears in giggle water because our season's barely started and we're already staring at one big banana slick of a record.

Jeez, gumshoe, can you help a fella out?

The bats, they slumber...

Like a little lad all tuckered out after a day skinning squirrels and chasing tadpoles, there was no waking the Red Stockings' ash bats yester-day.

Indeed, our heroic clouters turned in at an early hour yester-day, despite the Anaheimians continuing to take the field and push "runners" 'round the sacks. Following a first-chapter dustup between Gen. Beckett and Bobby "Barrels" Abreau -- all concerning a wildly uncorked speedball that nearly knocked Barrels' noggin cap clean off -- the Anaheimians certainly were the squad with the most vim and vigor.

Perhaps the Red Stockings' Pullman trip across the Great Plains was marred by lumpy mattresses and stale crackers. Or perhaps there is some corps-wide malady affecting the lads' level of grit and determination.

Whatever the case, Rooters from Presque Isle to Pasadena are calling for a return to form this eve against the Athletics of Oakland. The challenge has been laid down, heroes of the flannel!

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!

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!

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.

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!

Godspeed to the General!

Assemble the troops before the good and virtuous Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, whose hill-top heroics in the waning days of October have become legendary. He has but one message for the flannel-clad warriors of the Boston regiment: Go forth in Victory!

The base-ball season hangs in the balance with to-night's tilt versus the formidable Floridians. One false step and those sun-kissed lads from Saint Petersburg will rain down mighty ash clouts, circling the bags with unrelenting fury. But our General has a crafty and forceful demeanor that, when all is right, makes the fairer sex swoon and the lads' knees buckle in flailing hysteria.

Let all Rooters hope the Good General brings his gunny-sack of greatness. The Nation's eyes are upon you, the commander of the mounding, the hurler-in-chief. In Beckett we believe!

Which contest was Francona watching?

Today, like all Rooters, I am still befuddled by Skipper Francona’s decision to return our beleagured General to the mound. It was clear to even the peanut-peddlers plying the aisles that the General was “off.”

After a heroic triumvirate of clouts by the Bostons gained them the scoring edge, it was Francona’s duty to turn the pill over to the relief hurling corps. And yet, against all evidence, he instead let the General mount the hill again to disastrous effect.

I have yet to hear a valid explanation for this egregious lapse in base ball judgment. Yet one of my club-house sources told me that a messenger-boy delivered a hand-written note to Francona in the midst of the contest. My source could not read the entire note, but saw a signature scrawled on the bottom of the card.

It read: “G. Little.”

Whither the General?

And so the long base ball contesting season has reached its terminus. The irrelevant New Yorks may have taken some solace from their two “wins” during the week-end, but a squad of Boston yannigans delivered a rousing victory in extra frames last evening that reiterated the essence of the thing: Boston continues the quest for a Pennant, while the New Yorks have a long winter of moustache-chewing ahead of them.

Yet an “extra” flashed across the wires late Sunday night that added a disquieting note to the celebration. It seems our great and terrible hurler, Gen. Joshua P. Beckett, has suffered some kind of ailment in his “oblique,” which necessitates a delay in his mound-helming duties. I’m no sawbones, but I’ve seen other fine ball-players sidelined for extended periods with such injuries, and we can not be sure if the General will indeed be in top performing condition when he returns to duty.

Sweet fancy Moses! Let’s hope the Boston medical men are administering frequent doses of Duffy’s Pure Malt Whiskey during the upcoming days. And if it comes to it, let them stick the General with a shot of Soldier’s Joy before his scheduled appearance. Whatever it takes to put the pill in his hand for a play-off game.

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!

Hurdy and Stuffy win the lottery!

The numbers of fortune surely were singing for ol' Hurdy Bird and The Stuffy One this early afternoon, as we were fatefully accepted into a rare lottery for admission tickets to a Bostons Red Stockings match to occur in the crisp and lovely month of September.

The occasion is Maine Day, that date where all the Fens celebrates its neighbors to the north. What kind of bunting will mark the occasion? Perhaps a fine deep blue with "DIRIGO" emblazoned across its majestically rippled creases. All Bay Staters will have their palms extended, ready to shake the hand of a true Mainer, a group so hearty it's of no wonder the 20th Maine regiment saved the whole of the United States that fateful day on Little Round Top.

A hearty "huzzah!" is reserved for Mr. McInnes, whose prowess at the ticketing office is certainly unmatched north of the Piscataqua River. For those attending the Sept. 14 match versus our even more northerly neighbors from Toronto, Canada, Hurdy and Stuffy will wear our Junior Maine Home Reserve uniforms with pride. We shall be positioned behind the practice pitching area beyond the "out"field, with steaming sausages and frothy ales in abundance.

Until then, let us say a word of good cheer for our ailing General, the young Joshua P. Beckett, whose cannon arm and sabre-rattling intensity marched our men to victory last season. Godspeed, good General!

Wrapping up with the Chicagoans

A quick note to cheer the good Gen. Joshua Beckett for the plentiful pounding of the striking zone in last night's match. For though the Red Stockings lagged the Chicagoans, the Boys from Boston never gave up the ghost and the General saw them through the battle.

When the dust settled, the Olde Towne Team led with five aces to just one for the home team White Stockings.

A trip on the road with four "wins" and three "losses" is passable, and even fortunate given the state of the vimless Bostons in recent games.

To Fenway we come!