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!

Beat that lumbago, Knuckles!

What a malady to befall our tricky hurler, Knuckles Wakefield! A sciatica or lumbago is no trivial matter, and it seems our heroic victory-earner is in line for some rest and relaxation away from the ball-park.

In his stead will be Clay "Beanpole" Buchholz, who has dazzled at the minor league level, and is eager to regain his professional form on the carefully manicured diamonds of the Major Leagues. All eyes will be on his pill tossing this eve.

Godspeed, Knuckles, and Godspeed Beanpole!

Let us now praise Tim Wakefield!

If anything can soothe the sting of two shabby Red Stockings performances against an inferior squad from Puget Sound, it is the delightful news that our own heroic hurler, Timothy "Knuckles" Wakefield, has received the honorary title of Base Ball All-Star!

For 14 long seasons, "Knuckles" has toiled selflessly for the good of the team, the good of the Sport, and the good of all American citizens who expect their ball-players to uphold the highest standards of personal conduct. Yes, his accumulation of twirling achievements is legendary: He stands alone atop Red Stocking records for matches started, and is within spitting distance for the franchise record for "wins" and "strike-outs."

His baffling effect on the pill's flight, engendered by the mysterious "knuckle-grip," is something few dare attempt, let alone master. But we Rooters know that the greatness of Mr. Wakefield comes from actions that bean-counters, statisticians and base-ball dilettantes overlook.

Whether he is volunteering for duties of ignominy, such as sacrificing his scheduled pitching turn in order to twirl many innings of relief in support of a beleaguered bull-pen during the '04 League Championship Series, or simply volunteering his time on behalf of New England's neglected urchins, he demonstrates all that is good and decent in ball players.

And now, he will be suitably honored across this fine land when he wears the Flannels of the American League in this summer's fabled exhibition contest.

Three cheers for Knuckles -- ball player, gentleman, and All-Star!

A race to the finish!

To-day's unseasonably warm weather in Maine has led me to strip my necktie and un-button my waist coat. My 20th Regiment flag flutters gaily in my back-yard, and I hear the whirring of a pushed mowing machine in my neighbor's grass patch. And though the day is a beaut beyond compare, my summer reverie is complete only because I have thought many times to-day of Jason "Argonaut" Bay's decisive four-pillow-roundabout in last night's tilt with the Clevelands.

A ninth-chapter clout in a scoreless ball game? Leave it to our resident Canadian to steal quietly to the plate and unload a full boat of northern aggression on the spinning pill, lofting it high into the grandstands whilst the assembled Clevelanders hung their heads in shame. Shame!

A reverential nod to our good hurler, Timothy "Knuckles" Wakefield, for his crafty deliveries that kept the opposing squad's ash sticks silent for much of the evening.

Eleven wins in a string. A dozen, we hope, will come this eve!

Mid-Day Tilt on Tap!

A deluge worthy of Noah himself kept the Bostons from contesting the Minnesotas last evening. Poor Knuckles would have had to don a scaphander instead of the flannels just to make it to the mound -- and I shudder to think how that bulky vestment would impact his twirling ability.

Instead, the team stayed wisely in-doors and scheduled a delightful double-tilt for to-day. Let us hope for a fine after-noon and evening of snappy ball from our Nine. Lead on, Knuckles!

UPDATE: A carnival of clouts! Another virtuouso hurling display from Knuckles Wakefield! Another "win" in the Bostons' ledger!

Sadly, the contest was ended in the seventh chapter by way of rain, and weather scientists predict another soaker for the evening.

The Sacrament of Reconciliation

Following the conclusion of last evening's base ball contest, I immediately conveyed myself to the Church of St. Ignatius with sorrow in my heart. Father Flanagan was waiting in the darkened confessional, where I performed the following act of contrition:

McInnes: Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession.

Father Flanagan: What brings to back to us after so long, my son? What sins do you wish to confess today?

McInnes: Father, I lost faith. I harbored vile, cowardly doubts about the mettle of our heroic hurler, "Knuckles" Wakefield.

I feared that his unorthodox style of pill-delivery would fail him at the critical hour, and the Oaklands would festoon the out-field with hot grassers, and plant clout after clout beyond the far fences. I feared his yannigan battery-mate would be unable to gather his most erratic hurls. And I feared, above all, that this disaster would occur when there was narry a reserve-hurler ready to take the mound.

Fr. Flanagan: These are indeed grave sins, my doubting Stuffy. Is it not obvious, after these long years of service to the Bostons, that Knuckles is amongst finest characters to ever wear the flannel and red hose? Has Knuckles not demonstrated time and again that needs of his squad trump his own interests?

Could you doubt that this true gentleman, fierce competitor and man of honor would keep his word when assuring Skipper Francona, "I understand the circumstances of the day, and I just want you to know whatever happens - don't take me out."

But I hear the contrition in your voice. You would not be confessing were you not aware of these facts already. Let this test of faith remind you that a base ball squad has no finer contributor than Knuckles Wakefield. Now, go light 49 candles in the sanctuary and sing three "Tessie"'s in penance.

Welcome back, Knuckles!

It's news this morning, good ol' Knuckles Wakefield is back in the fold. I speak for the legions who are fanatics of that hero's shaking, waffling and confounding hurling when I say "Huzzah, and welcome back!"

Stuffy and I are well prepared for the darkening season, and will draw close to the hot stove and report any and all Red Stockings news to our tens of readers.

Until then, we remain, faithfully yours,
Hurdy Chadwick and Stuffy McInnes,
Proprietors,
Full Circuit Clout

Escape these chains!

The good lads of Boston are preparing for quite a fight this eve, when the Red Stockings engage the Floridians of the American Base-Ball League in the fourth of a best-of-seven matchup for league victors.

Today, the Bostons are in a two-games-to-one hole. One might say they are wearing the manacles of the underdog, those heavy steeled chains that apparently are binding our sluggers' hands to their leg-irons. Would that the Mighty Colossus and our Lil' Hands Pete have the strength to swing massive ashen clouts out of that abominable base-ball stade in the St. Petersburg area! Would that our hurling corps remind themselves of where "ball" and "strike" land, and how best to deliver the pill to would-be-swatters.

Tonight, let us remind our wobbly pill-man, Knuckles Wakefield, that all of Boston beseeches him to grasp victory with his well-leathered hurling hand.

Onward, Bostons!

NB: It has come to our attention at FCC that one David John Drew, whose clouting heroics against the Clevelanders were celebrated far and wide nearly one year ago this night, takes over the leading off position from our young buck, Jac Ellsbury, the human wind machine. Godspeed, David John! Round the basebaths so Little Horse and the Large Father may bring you home!

Special Delivery to the Bostons

So chagrined am I by the dreadful ball-playing of the local nine that last night I took a few coppers from my recent winnings at the greyhound track (where else is a Rooter to spend time during the All-Star Pause?) and dictated a Western Union telegram message directly to the flannel-wearing flailers.

Herewith are the contents of the message. It is my sincere hope that a chum of mine in the Anaheim clubhouse was able to deliver it in time to set these boys onto the diamond in the proper frame of mind to secure a “win” to-night.

NL 10:52PST 21JUL08.

BOSTON RED STOCKING BASE BALL CLUB

ANGEL STADIUM OF ANAHEIM, CALIF.

THE POOR QUALITY OF YOUR BALL-PLAYING IS WAFTING A STINK OF FAILURE FROM THE WESTERN JET-STREAM STOP DERBYS EXHIBITION GAMES AND LEISURE DAYS ARE OVER STOP MEANINGFUL MATCHES ARE NOW BEING CONTESTED WHICH REQUIRE YOU TO RESUME EFFECTIVE TWIRLING CAT-LIKE GLOVEWORK AND PILL-PUNISHING CLOUTING STOP GODSPEED KNUCKLES WE HAVE FULL FAITH IN YOU

STUFFY MCINNES MAINE

Vexed by our vim-less Bostons!

The calendar turns, the midpoint of the base-ball contesting season is behind us, and Rooters are sorely discomfited at the penultimate position of our local nine. Playing “runners-up” to the belligerent Tampas is unbecoming of a champion squad.

To-night, it is time for heavy batting, artful catching, and deft twirling to record another victory to the Bostons’ credit. Let us see our mighty swat artists bat the journeyman Garza all over the field. And let “Knuckles” Wakefield, a veterans’ veteran and true gentleman of the sport, atone for “High-Pockets” Lugo’s unconscionable “gag” at the plate last evening, when the equalizing runner was a mere one bag from home.

To be sure, Knuckles may be the only Boston who prefers playing amongst the miasmas of the Tampa sporting gymnasium. Somehow, the ill-humors of that wretched affront to the pure and platonic beauties of a ball-park have the opposite effect on his fluttering twirls, helping him notch nine “wins” while only a single “loss” under its roof.

So lead on, Knuckles, and carry your squad back to glory.

Disgraceful!

The ineptitude and futility on display in the faraway ball-parks of the West is a sore puzzle for Rooters to ponder. Can this rabble of hackers who show no aptitude for the beauties of the diamond-field sport really be the same Boston squad that emphatically swats and twirls its way to triumph in the friendly dimensions of the park by the Fens?

Last night’s white-wash at the hands of the inferior Seattles was the final insult for this observer. To squander a sparkling performance by “Knuckles” Wakefield is an offense that deserves no quarter!

The sage, stalwart veteran is one of the most heroic ball-men to ever wear the Boston flannels. Few have the character to bestride the dirt Olympus and put their faith in a unique twirling style that depends as much on the whims of fate and prevailing winds as it does to their intentions. Once the fluttering pill begins its dance toward the home-plate, “Knuckles” is like a spiritualist channeling a message from the great beyond, directing but not entirely controlling the outcome.

As such, this consummate team player deserves the support of his club-wielding compatriots. Yet the somnolent stick-men once again failed to make even a single “run” on his behalf.

We can only hope that the “real” Red Stockings shimmy their way free from the binds and gags administered by these dastardly imposters and storm the base-paths of Baltimore to avenge the recent losses. I will soon be clattering south by rail to observe one of the week-end contests, and will not tolerate a continued display of egg-sucking from the local nine.

Two mighty shots, and down go the Kansans!

There’s no more devastating blow in all of sport than a full circuit clout delivered with a full complement of base-runners on the bags. One such wallop is a rare and delightful enough sight. Two in the same contest? That is an embarrassment of riches, and a sure road to ruin for the hapless squad that receives such a battering.

And so, down went the Kansas City nine to the Bostons’ heavy batting. Ol’ Aches and Pains Drew and Mike “Two-Bags” Lowell made the most of their turns at the plate, when the diamond was studded with red-stocking’d gents. Not even our volatile, hydrogen-fueled relief corps could surrender the lead achieved on the occasion of those two mighty swats.

Onward to California, where our boys must again battle the discomforts of the cramped Pullman car, unfamiliar grounds, and the questionable availability of Duffy’s Pure Malt Whiskey. Let’s hope the heavy batting continues tonight, to support the always erratic twirling of Knuckles Wakefield.

Snooping Around in Old Detroit

As a young child, my favorite program aired on the wireless was Magnum, P.I., which detailed the exploits of a hardboiled Chandler-esque private dick named Thomas Magnum. And though he spent his days driving a top-of-the-line Model T through the lush underbrush of Honolulu, a five-day steam from the Port of Los Angeles, trouble always found him. But night after night, one truth about Thomas Magnum came in loud and clear over the wireless: This gumshoe was a Detroit Tigers fan.

Indeed, would the wireless today still carry the Magnum serial, I'd bend an ear nightly to hear Johnny Murdoch -- who voiced the cantankerous and mustachioed crime-stopper -- bring the character to life with a rant-and-rage over what's happening on the ball-field in Detroit.

For two consecutive nights, the tourists from Boston have walked all over the Detroits, their ash bats cracking wise with hits, treating the home-team like a cuckolded gent coming in off the street, hat in hand, pleading to hire a tail for his gal. Indeed, Matsuzaka-san two nights ago offered the Detroits every chance to rout the Bostons, piling up eight "walks" after delivering the pill in many a haphazard directions. Still, the Bostons prevailed and times were dandy for the Rooters.

Last night, the game was won by two crafty veterans, Tim "Knuckles" Wakefield and Mike "The Hunter" Timlin. In fact, not a home-town man crossed the plate in nine chapters, whilst Boston's men continued playing ring-around-the-rosy with the Detroit ballpark. Five to nothing was the final tally, keeping the Bostons at the very top of the American League.