Sweet relief!

The week-end's tilts were fraught with suspense. To be sure, not a moustache in New England was left dry by nights' ends, and pints of Duffy's littered the gutters from Fall River to Fort Kent. When the dust settled and Monday broke like a damp fevering, it was the Heroes of the Fens ahead of Gotham's high-priced dilettantes by one match on the season. A narrow margin, but a favorable margin none-the-less!

But so peculiar is the work that does his turning: The Red Stockings are laying waste to those Nordic Minnesotans -- with their aw-shucks demeanors, farm-bred musculatures and Lutheran work ethics -- while the Gothams are experiencing fissures in even their most stout ramparts. To wit: Crafty veteran Mariano "El Fruitbat" Rivera, King of the K, Master of the Cutter, appears to be losing his campaign against Father Time, El Padre de los Niños y la Felicidad.


I, for one, say a hearty Huzzah to the fine work of El Padre, and His own crafty veteran abilities. But this is not the time for gloating: Instead, let us cheer the Heroes of Olde Towne and embrace the two-dozen-plus-one that wear the Boston Flannel day in and day out. 


May the season continue apace!

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!

Delivery from the West Coast!

The results from sun-dappled California are here just days after the contests began between the Oaklands and our flannel-clad heroes.

Let me tear the envelope and deliver the goods:

In two tilts, the Red Stockings squandered a surprisingly efficient performance by "Simple Jack" Lackey, falling prey to the Athletics and their shiny white shoes, and took full advantage of effortless twirling by Beanpole Buchholz to even the series at one apiece.

To-night, the Bostons, having traveled the length of the new outpost of fashion and cinema that is California, will acclimate themselves to base-ball in the dry desert conditions of Anaheim.

We may sneak downstairs after mother puts the children to bed and repair to the wireless with a short glass of Duffy's. I am not, however, inclined to root in silence. Give me strength to remain quiet should the infield react to sharply hit ground balls with heavy handed muffs and boners, or should to-night's twirling cause me to chew fretfully on my moustache.

Prepare to duke, New York!

To-night, the Bostons take the field refreshed to face the Goliaths from Gotham, who have regained the top spot in the Eastern League of the Americans after a year of wandering and introspection.

What will this eve's tilt bring to the green environs of the Fens? Will catcalls rain down on admitted opiate fiend Alex "Slaps" Rodriguez? Will Mark "Sacks o' Cash" Teixeira engender similar dissatisfaction from the home crowd of Rooters? Will Melky "Chubby Britches" Cabrera finally find the foot-long frankfurter stand below the center-field bleacher seats?

All questions and more will be answered beginning with the first hurl of the pill this evening. Count me among the Rooters who will be tuned to the wireless to follow the proceedings. And rest assured that in one hand will be a tumbler of Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey while the other will be set to commence with a dose of moustache twirling should the game get tight.

Go forth, you heroic Red Stockings!

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.