The picture of comfort!

Update! My concern over "Speed-Boy" Crawford's dismal stickwork reached such heights over the week-end that I slipped a copper to a messenger-boy, with instructions to deliver a bottle of Duffy's to the Fenway club-house attendant.

Affixed to that shiny flagon of sweet brown relief was a brief message about securing a new set of Flannels for Crawford -- preferably ones that had not been tainted by the miasma of failure that once made "High Pockets" Lugo the object of such scorn among Rooters. Message received, and the switch made to a fine set of looser-fitting togs, the Speed-Boy emerged envigorated on Sunday, striking the decisive blow to secure a victory for the Bostons!

He's a new man out there, poised to punish the horsehide and demonize the base-paths with his bag burgling! Meanwhile the nine continued to dominate the Anaheims on Monday evening, breaking up a fine hurling duel with a symphony of clouts in the seventh frame.

Not unnoticed, however, was the shameful Sunday afternoon performance of shaky twirler Jenks, who cost "Knuckles" Wakefield -- the sport's finest Gentleman -- a much deserved "win" for his sparkling deliveries during emergency mound duties. Jenks had apparently chewed his mustache clean off his lip in an attempt to reverse his spate of dismal luck, yet the troubles remain.

March on, mighty Bostons!

Gentlemen, show your cards!

While rooters across New England chew their moustaches clean off their lips, Red Stockings General Manager Theo "Boy Wonder" Epstein is waving cigar smoke from his visage, reading ticker-tapes, dispatching messenger boys and cranking his telephone device in an effort to secure new troops for the remaining months of the 2009 base ball campaign.

Scuttlebutt is flying faster than an aeroplane as the clock marches inexorably toward the 4:00 trading deadline. When the hour tolls, who will remain, who will depart, and who will join the squad?

Alas, I am moments from boarding a steamer-ferry for a summer cottage colony on an island in Casco Bay! I hope to receive a strong enough wireless signal to remain current on the latest news, but if nothing else, I will rely on the daily broadsheets and tabloids to recount the results during the week-end.

Until then, keep a tight hold on the Duffy's and remain faithful!

Yrs.

Stuffy McInnes

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.

The case of the disappearing Colossus

A warm spring sun cannot un-chill the hearts of New Englanders this morning. Some bemoan the fall of our ice hockey squad. Others grimly chew their moustaches and lament the inability of their green-clad basket-ball men to seal victory in their own championship tournament.

But stopping by the local tavern for my morning whiskey, I heard the loudest argle-bargle coming from Rooters pondering the performance of our great hero, David "The Colossus" Ortiz.

This once fearsome swat artist is now a mere spectral presence in the batting-box, his ash stick no better than a willow switch in his tentative fists. Last evening, in the far away Anaheim township of the Los Angeles metropolitan region of California, our Colossus failed to make a hit in seven trips to the pentagon. Worse, he had on two occasions a full complement of red-stocking base runners just waiting for him to deliver the fatal blow.

Skipper Francona, as befuddled as all Rooters, has determined that the big man be relieved of swatting duties for the evening. In the interim, he's cabled the local constabulary, inquiring whether they have a detective trained in the latest sleuthing sciences that can uncover the mystery of our missing Colossus.

Courage, Rooters. Courage.

Mister, can you spare some vim?

Let us acknowledge the corn: The first week of the Bostons’ 2009 base ball campaign has been nothing short of wretched.

Last evening, I was filled to the brim and ready to over-flow with sad words for my fellow Rooters. But after a sleepless night of moustache chewing and Duffy’s-taking, I settled my brain with the notion that the first moments of a long campaign are rarely indicative of its conclusion. After all, Napoleon’s Grande Armee looked formidable as it commenced its march on Moscow in 1812. Recall from your history lessons the result of that folly.

Instead, I have puzzled through the Bostons apparent lack of base ball skills by turning the question from tip to tail: Which members of the local nine appear to be in fine fettle, and what is their secret?

The answer, gleaming like a spire in the spring sunlight, is our resolute first-sacker: “Yukon” Youkilis!

Altho’ noticeably less hirsute, Yukon is nonetheless scalding the horsehide in the same terrible fashion he displayed last season. He’s making hits in roughly every other plate appearance, while his teammates can barely manage to reach the first station in one quarter of their attempts. He is swatting four-ply drives and “extra” base hits as if to register his disgust with the offerings of opposing hurlers!

Perhaps Yukon’s bottomless reserves of vigor can be attributed to his off-season conditioning and gustatory habits. I’ve heard from my club-house informants that team-mates have asked him to prepare a luncheon of the bush victuals he regularly consumes while recuperating from the season (and cultivating his whiskers) in the remote northern wilderness.

On the menu today: Beaver-tail soup, bear sausage, and raw lake trout pulled directly from the icy waters and still flopping in protest. Let us hope this meal restores the rest of our Nine to their optimum hurling, swatting and fielding condition.

Tuesdays with Hurdy: Moustaches!

Tuesdays with Hurdy is a weekly exercise allowing Hurdy Chadwick to ponder issues of importance to the general Rooting public. Today's installment finds Hurdy pondering the efficacy of the mustachioed set.

Dear friends,

The lad above is my nephew Cornelius. Why, if there had been a tooth-puller in his burg when his pearly whites began popping through his gums, that man would have been richer than a steel baron! Just look at those cookie grinders poking through his open maw! Sweet sassy molassey, that boy has got a fine set of enamel!

It's likely, however, that few notice his prodigious chompers, in large fact that his moustachioed upper lip is so kindly swathed in gentle bristles. And that, my friends, is the power of the top-shelf push-broom, the Great Shapoopie, the lip anorak, the hair o' the bear. Why, the moustache draws the eyes away from any unsightly facial blemish and onto the glory of the man's old kissy scrubber. What a device! It's in this way that I am unsurprised to rarely see unattached men who also sport moustaches. Why a lady wouldn't fall for a moustachioed man is beyond the reaches of my thimble of comprehension.

If I had the gumption -- and the extra jingle in my change purse -- why I'd run down to Vespucci's and procure some waxing agent for the ends of my moustache. If I could twirl those tufts, I'd be among the most respected men on my block as I carted my trash to the curb and fetched the news-paper on a Saturday morning.

Indeed, moustache play has become such a past-time that even the President on his weekly radio address takes a few minutes to describe to the listening audience as to the state of his under-the-nose caterpillar. And during times of stress, I know no fresh-faced man who is as relaxed as one who is able to chew on his moustache.

Friends, it's the dawning of the age of the hairiest, and I, Hurdy Chadwick, am going to sing to the golden choirs of and let Him know what power His creation has wrought!

All hail the moustache!

Yours in hurling and twirling,
Hurdy Chadwick
Westbrook, Me.

Return of the Native

A low, hungry feeling came over me this morning as I considered the plain truth of the previous evening. Another fine hurling performance by “Knuckles” Wakefield answered by his club-mates with listless swatting. Another late-chapter failure by the bull pen. Another defeat for the Bostons in a faraway ball-park.

But the time for gloomily chewing on our moustaches is over, as the Nine are set to begin another contest on the unfriendly Pacific coast. and to-night, we have a special card up our sleeve: Our starting Hurler is no stranger to the environs of Seattle.

He is a lad from the land of loggers, raised among the mists of Puget Sound and the timber-scented currents that blow down from the Cascades. Mounting the mound this evening should feel to “Nothin’ Doin’” Lester as much like a “home” match as any at Fenway Park, and his twirling should perform accordingly. Lead on, Lester, to a sorely needed road triumph.