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 stampede of white cleats

Why a pachyderm balancing on a base-ball is a fair symbol for a team from Oakland, Calif., is beyond the comprehension of your humble correspondent. And while they may appear docile as they plod around the underbrush, there is something menacing about the leathery visage of a noble elephant. For when the feet begin stamping and the trunk lifts and blows into the air like the trumpets of war, it is surely time to scatter for safer locales.

Such was the situation this Memorial Day week-end when the Bostons steamed to the West Coast full of vigor after a rousing homestand that featured seven wins and naught a loss. But as the estimable Stuffy McInnes so sagely pointed out in previous correspondence, a cross-America journey in a Pullman car is a certainty to sap any ball-player's energies. And arriving in the City by San Francisco, the Boston heroes bumbled their way through a three-day set of games, losing each one by a significant sum of plate crossings.

The Boston Red Sox team were sapped of vim, and extended the string of tourist losses to seven. Were they lulled into a stupor by the Athletics' kindly faces and white cleats? No-one can be sure, though it was a certainty that the trumpeting elephant was ready to strike. Beware!

Author's note: Following the drubbing in the City by San Francisco, the Bostons steamed their way north to the logging town of Seattle, where the salty air of Puget Sound was a better tonic than that of the Golden Gate. The Olde Towne Team pummeled the Marine Men of Seattle with the corpulent and crafty Bartolo "El Gordo" Colon manning the mound. A streak-breaking to fire the Bostons' ball-playing corps! Huzzah for a winning match away from the homey atmosphere of Fenway Park.