Adieu, dear hurler!

Yesterday, I was tinkering in my yard shed, repairing the bungholes on a few finely coopered salt barrels, when the evening newspaper was tossed on my front walk. The headline stopped me in my tracks:

Hub Hurler Lays Down Flannel

Yes, our own Teutonic rabble rouser, Curt "Der Spiegel" Schilling, has hung up his spiked shoes and his well-oiled mitt after 20 electrifying campaigns in the Major Leagues of Base-ball.

Rooters' debts to Mr. Schilling shall never be repaid in full, for that I am sure. A favorite base-ball scribe of Full Circuit Clout, Mr. Chad Finn, penned a loving eulogy that is sure to have even the hardiest Rooter weeping in his suds come quitting time.

A tip of the hat-bill to our Germanic deliveryman, whose whirling, twirling and hurling defined an era of success in New England base-ball. His achievements and sacrifices will not be forgotten.

Three cheers for old Bavaria himself, the Merlin from Berlin, Mr. Curt Schilling!

A hero bids fare-the-well

It was reported this week-end that the Bostons' club-house leader, the Teutonic rabble-rouser, Curt "Der Spiegel"Schilling, will go under the knife to cure his ailing and aging body.

Rooters familiar with Schilling's hurling mound heroics were certainly unsurprised by the doctors' reports that detailed a litany of medical issues. For spending the better part of two decades twirling and hurling invites such maladies to one's shoulders and arms.

That said, we at Full Circuit Clout rise and applaud the blond-and-paunchy one for a magical twilight among the Fenway regulars. Since coming aboard four years ago, his stated desire was to aid the home-town team in the winning of a championship. Mission accomplished, dear sir.

From the blood-streaked hosiery to his penchant for discussing base-ball matters to willing audiences across the wireless, Schilling was a man without parallel.

Will the surgery work? If we only knew. Indeed, just a few years ago, such a shoulder surgery would surely confine the patient to the rest of his days in a wheeling-chair. But in this day of medical marvels, Schilling's chances of leaving the surgery table alive are greater than 10 percent -- a testament to the golden age gracing the world to-day.

I, Hurdy Chadwick, pledge this to our readers: I will wager one dollar that Rooters around the world will one day see Curt Schilling walk again! Huzzah and godspeed to the Teutonic rabble rouser!

So the doctor said, "That's not MY stethoscope!"

Jubilation abounds at the City of Palms, where sun-dappled base-paths are freshly chalked with lime and ready for the dusty exploits of our home-town team.

But on this day, the park was whisper quiet, with nary a horsehide pill being lobbed nor a pine stick slicing through citrus-scented air. The gents were inside, lined up in their stocking feet, stripped to their underclothings for the spring ritual of Doctor's Day. Tongue depressors were stockpiled by the basketful and athletic girdles gathered in all shapes and sizes.

One Red Sock was conspicuously and curiously absent from the gay proceedings, however. Curt Schilling, that Teutonic rabble rouser whose prowess from sixty-feet-six-inches belies his penchant for all things gut-busting and Bavarian. A bum shoulder seemed the reason, though no more was forthcoming by Herr Schilling or his trusted club-house attendant, Lem "Sneaky Charles" Barlow.

Be assured that word one whispered will find its way into the Full Circuit Clout.