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Thread: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

  1. #16
    Join Date
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    42

    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    This is great, the first dynasty I've been into for a while. Please keep it up.

  2. #17
    Join Date
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    Question Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    Thank you, Lotso, I'll try... only 75 yearsworth to relate, now... I should live so long...however there seems to be some doubt of my veracity when it comes to actual history - I include the following extract from a private email sent to me.

    "HOW MUCH OF IT DO YOU THINK WAS
    TRUE?...I KNOW OF JOSEPH KENNEDY INTENDING TO BE IN THE WHITE
    HOUSE...HIS ILL-FATED SONS WERE HEROES OF MINE, ALBEIT RANDY RASCALS WHEN
    IT CAME TO THE OPPOSITE SEX....BUT THERE WAS DEFINITELY TARNISH ON THE
    GOLDEN BOYS FROM THEIR FATHER MAKING MUCH OF PROHIBITION!"

    This was my reply (we are shouting at each other because of poor eyesight )

    I WOULDN'T HAVE WRITTEN WHAT I DID ABOUT REAL PEOPLE E.G. McCORMICK & JOE KENNEDY, UNLESS I BELIEVED IT TO
    BE TRUE.

    "DAN CONWAY" IS A FICTIONAL CHARACTER, BUT HE GETS HIS FACTS STRAIGHT, EVEN IF HE INTERPRETS THEM DIFFERENTLY FROM OTHERS.

    HE IS THE MOUTHPIECE FOR COMMENTING ON THE WORLD'S EVENTS AT THAT TIME...THE REAL PEOPLE, THE TARREGS AND THEIR KITH AND KIN ARE MEANT TO PORTRAY THE EFFECTS OF THOSE EVENTS ON TYPICAL BRITS AND CANADIANS WITHIN MY KEN. I AM RELATING HISTORY HERE, NOT INVENTING IT - APART FROM THE BASEBALL, AND THE GAME, BM IS DECIDING THAT - I WRITE OF WORLD HISTORY FROM RESEARCH, AND MY OWN MEMORIES...I WRITE OF THE TARREGS & CO - AGAIN, EXCEPTING THE BASEBALL - FROM PERSONAL EXPERIENCE.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  3. #18
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    London, April 7th 1938

    “Shall I tell you a story?” asked Billy Darby

    His friend, George Tarreg, regarded him warily
    “Go on, then”

    “About Jack Anory...”

    “I know that one” protested George in vain, for Billy
    continued in a rush “Shall I begin it?...there’s nothin’
    in it!”

    “That’s not much of a joke” pointed out George

    “Bet you can’t tell one” challenged his best friend

    George thought for a moment then brightened

    “Here’s one our Ross tol’ me ... a muvver frog an’ a
    baby frog, wanted to cross a busy street...when they
    crossed this busy street the muvver frog said ‘I’m
    glad the three of us got over all right...now why
    did she say that?”

    George was dimly aware that he
    he hadn’t told the riddle properly, but he wasn’t
    going to let on to his year-older friend, who tended
    to be a bit on the know-it-all side, but who was,
    gratifyingly, very puzzled now, venturing wild
    guesses from one to nine frogs, inventing a father
    frog, and, cleverly, in his turn, suggesting that
    mother frog was “expectin’”.

    After Billy had finally lapsed into a long sulky silence,
    George offered a “Give up?” His baffled adversary
    nodded briefly.

    “The baby frog couldn’t count!” yelled the triumphant
    seven-year old.

    “”You said the muvver frog said!” protested Billy

    “No, I never” Guiltily.

    “You did, an’ all...'sides, that’s not a joke...that’s a...
    a question-like’...you dont know any bleedin’ jokes!”
    concluded Billy in disgust.

    “I know tons a jokes” boasted George, in
    desperation “...I c’n even make my baby brother laugh.”

    “Garn,...lessee you do it then” jeered Billy “Le’s go
    in, an’ you show me”.

    George surveyed the two of them. They had, again,
    been gallivanting around this Saturday morning,
    bumming cigarette cards; hanging from the backs
    of coal carts; playing knock-up ginger - hammering on
    front doors or pushing bells, then running away before
    the irate householder could come to the door- plus any other
    activity which could account for their current state
    of grime.

    “My Mum won’t 'arf box my ears, if I go in like this...”
    George concluded, glumly “...tell you what, Bill, I’ll
    get cleaned up a bit then go in ‘n’ see ‘f I can bring
    ‘im out in our pram”

    So the two urchins busied themselves with already
    grimy handkerchiefs, plus oodles of spit - Billy
    generously providing a ready supply of his own
    saliva - and much elbow-grease, as Mrs Tarreg
    so often urged the means of bearing down on a job,
    until one. at least, of the two small boys, George, was raised to
    a level of being merely filthy, one that a long-suffering mother could
    tolerate, with just a heavy sigh or two.

    Mrs Tarreg was, in fact, serving in the shop, her
    eldest, the usual shopkeeper, Ross, off with that nice
    young American, Mr Conway, to play their game of
    glorified rounders whatever it was, at Hyde Park.

    “They wanted to take you with them, but you were
    late again...” she remonstrated without heat to George, when
    he trooped into the shop “,,what’ve you and young
    Darby been up to, then?”

    “Oh, nothin’ much Mum...just playin’ “

    “Want some dinner?...I’ve kept it hot for you”

    “No thanks, Mum. Uncle Nob ‘n’ Auntie Bea
    bought us pie an’ mash again”

    “Georgie, how many times have I told you not to
    cadge off our relatives?”

    “I don’t, Mum...” an aggrieved George whined
    “There’s so many of ‘em...wherever we go”

    “An’ they always give you treats, though some of ‘em
    haven’t got two ha’ppence to bless ‘emslves with,
    and us with the shop doing so well, and all”

    “Mum, can we take Billy out in the pram to the
    park?”

    “No, you can’t!”

    “Oh, Mum...why not?”

    “ ‘Cos Y’s a crooked letter...” Mrs Tarreg usually
    took time out to explain her refusals to her children,
    but just then Solly, the cash- and -carry wholesaler
    was making a call in response to her phoned -in
    order of less than an hour ago, for various brands of
    cigarettes and confectionery on which she was
    running low.

    The cash & carry people were a shopkeeper’s best
    friend, Mrs Tarreg had long ago decided, their
    prices were reasonable, and their service was
    excellent...and this one, Solly Schaeffer, was one of
    the best.

    “Want this lot on the slate, Missus?” grunted Solly,
    as he plonked a box each of ciggies and candy on
    the shop counter.

    “Ross tells me we had a busy mornin’ so there might be
    enough in the till, if you’ve got the invoice...”

    After he handed it to her, she studied it for a moment and said
    “Oh, yes, we’re quids in..." She went to the till “...I
    know that you prefer cash to our cheque”

    “Don’t we all...?” remarked the wholesaler as he riffed
    through the wad of pound notes that she handed him -
    not many fivers about in those days, even in comparatively affluent
    Mayfair.

    “Why can't I, Mum...” whined George, again “You
    let me play out"

    “That's different ..." retorted his mother “ I know that
    you're with somebody, Billy Darby"

    “He'll help me wiv our Billy..." pleaded the boy

    “You're both too young to take an infant to the park”

    “ ‘Spose we jus’ prammed him in this street, where
    you could see us...?” asked George, anxious to
    demonstrate to his friend, that he could make his
    brother laugh.

    Mrs Tarreg considered; she was quite proud of George’s
    apparent concern for his brother, and of his ingenuity
    in thinking of a solution to her concerns, especially
    in front of an interested bystander like Solly Schaeffer.

    Such must be one of the few rewards - along with
    that of virtue --of being a mother.

    It was a nice day for the time of year...and it would
    do little Billy good to get some sun...normally a placid
    child, he’d been a bit of a grizzler, lately.

    She sniffed, and relented.

    “All right, then...the other side of the street...”
    which would give her the widest angle of view,
    and the boys a few extra yards in which to trundle
    their small charge to and fro “...and come to think of it,
    you can take our Audrey, too...” for some vague reason Mrs Tarreg
    felt that the extra seniority - Audrey Tarreg was all
    of three years old - present in the perambulator, would provide
    extra security for the toddler. George disputed this.

    “Aw, Mum, she sticks her finger in his eye, you
    don’t watch her” This was true, although the little
    girl was wont to poke in the spirit of scientific
    exploration of her baby brother, rather than any
    sisterly malice.

    “Then watch her, Silly!” his mother’s patience was
    wearing thin “Use your eighteen pence..." tapping
    her own forehead “...strap her in the other end of
    the pram, away from where she can’t get at the
    baby...just up and down, in front of the shop,
    hear me ? I lose sight of you for one minute, and in
    you come”

    So it was that young George Tarreg got what he
    wished for - and learned early in life, the lesson of
    being careful in relation thereof

    He spent almost an hour wheeling two whimpering
    infants to and fro, without gaining a smile from either
    one. as much as he told jokes; stories; sang; even
    capered for them...although his companion, Billy
    Darby, laughed hard and long - and, derisively, at him.
    Last edited by Rongar; 03-14-2015 at 01:07 PM.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  4. #19
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    Code:
    	
    
    Mayfair Toffs (3-2) at Clapham Costermongers (4-1)
    
    April 7th, 1938
      	1 	2 	3 	4 	5 	6 	7 	8 	9 	R 	H 	E
    Toffs 	0 	3 	0 	0 	4 	1 	1 	0 	0 	9 	16 	4
    'Mongers 0 	0 	1 	0 	3 	0 	0 	0 	1 	5 	10 	3
    	
    
    Toffs 	           AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    B. Haines SS 	6 	1 	0 	1 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.238
    F Allen RF 	5 	1 	0 	2 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.227
    K Lucas LF 	5 	1 	0 	1 	0 	1 	1 	0 	.150
    A V-Carter CF 	5 	2 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.316
    D Rudd 3B 	5 	3 	0 	1 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.300
    B Thornton 1B 	4 	1 	1 	1 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.471
    Dan Conway C 	4 	4 	0 	2 	0 	2 	0 	1 	.533
    P Wortley 2B 	4 	2 	1 	1 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.267
    T Eldredge P 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	3 	0 	0 	.250
    Totals        	42 	16 	2 	9 	0 	8 	5 	1 	 
    
    2B: Dan Conway (2), Dudley Rudd (2), Alan Veevers-Carter (1)
    GDP: Brian Haines
    
    E: Bill Thornton, Peter Wortley, Joe Ruddock, Clint Hyman
    	
    Costermongers 	AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    M Millner SS 	5 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.200
    D Bryant CF 	5 	1 	0 	1 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.300
    S Mosher LF 	5 	2 	0 	2 	1 	2 	0 	0 	.368
    L Thornton 1B 	5 	3 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.500
    J Conrad RF 	5 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.286
    C Underwood 2B 	5 	2 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.357
    C Williams C 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.375
    M Cutshall 3B 	4 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.263
    B Madison P 	1 	0 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    B Wilder P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    M Baum P 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    J Hanson P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    S Dietz PH 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.500
    C Wright P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    Totals 	41 	10 	1 	5 	1 	5 	1 	0 	 
    
    2B: Charles Underwood (2), Danny Bryant (1)
    3B: Charles Underwood (1)
    HR: Sammy Mosher (2)
    
    DP: Lee Thornton, Mark Cutshall, Charles Underwood
    E: Mark Cutshall, Charles Underwood, Sammy Mosher
    
    Toffs   	IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    T Eldredge 	9.0 	10 	1 	1 	5 	4 	1 	129 	6.97
    Totals  	9.0 	10 	1 	1 	5 	4 	1 	129 	 
    	
    Costermongers 	IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    Brett Madison 	4.2 	8 	1 	0 	7 	4 	3 	58 	4.26
    Brian Wilder 	0.1 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	11 	0.00
    Mike Baum 	2.0 	3 	0 	0 	2 	1 	2 	31 	4.50
    Joe Hanson 	1.0 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	14 	0.00
    Chris Wright 	1.0 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	11 	0.00
    Totals 	        9.0 	16 	2 	0 	9 	5 	5 	125 	 
    
    WP: Ted Eldredge (1-1)
    LP: Bill Madison (1-1)
    	
    Temperature: 58F
    Wind: 2 MPH (left to right)
    Attendance: N/A
    Time: 2:23
    Last edited by Rongar; 01-05-2013 at 09:40 AM.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  5. #20
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    New Port Richey, Florida, April 7th 1938

    Bill Heatherington, the Coach of the Hudson
    Springers in Florida sent a telegram to Dan Conway in London.

    “Send Tarreg soonest Stop Urgently need starters Stop”

    Bill must be having injury problems, guessed Conway,
    the beginning of a season was ever a hazard for pitchers
    who hadn't thrown much during the winter...all the better
    for Ross Tarreg, was his thought.

    On his way to his last game with the Mayfair Toffs,
    Dan picked up the youth, in his rented Rover - on his
    new improved salary of $10.000 per year from the
    Tribune, he would be able to buy his own car, once
    the monthly paychecks started rolling in - the paper
    had advanced him a grand upon signing his six-
    -month contract, meanwhile - and he was shopping
    around for a workhorse - powered vehicle that also
    looked good - so far, he favoured the Rover.

    Once in the car, he invited Ross to dive into his
    jacket pocket, wherein resided the cable from Bill.

    After reading it the young man whistled softly “Hoo-
    bloody - ray...!” he then chortled “...now all I gotta
    do is get there”

    “That’s been fixed...” Conway murmured his twinkling eyes
    on the road ahead “...start packin’ Kid...you fly out of here
    on the 22nd of this month “

    “Blimey, O’Riley...” the youth stared at him, and,
    this time, forgetting his manners, entirely “You
    Yanks don’t hang about, do you?"

    Dan grinned “ A case of not what you know, as
    who you know... and that’s not all...during the week
    I signed up to coach and play for the Embassy Marines”

    Ross whistled, again “Garn...how’d you manage that?”

    “Oh, it was more or less arranged for me...” Dan grinned
    “...sorry, but as a discreet newsman, I cannot reveal
    my source...suffice it to say that today will be my last
    time playing for the Toffs...from now on, I’ll have
    to bear down on making the Marines, already the
    best team in this Metro League, even better”

    “Blimey...” muttered Ross “Coachin’s a full time job
    in itself, ennit?...how’re you gonna manage wi’ the
    other?”

    “Fortunately...” said Dan , slowing for the turn into
    the Hyde Park entrance “...writing’s a job you can
    do in your head at all times...by the time I sit down
    at my typewriter to knock out my weekly piece, it’s
    more or less in place...it just takes me a few hours
    or so to put it down, and polish it up."

    “Yeah, but aren’t you supposed to be out there,
    gatherin’ stuff to write about?

    “Nope, these days the stuff comes to me...Hitler does
    his thing, everybody else reacts to him, and I just sit
    back, take it all in, and draw my own conclusions..."

    As the playing area came into view, with a few
    Toffs already there, conversing, Dan instructed
    his protege.

    "Now, remember, if they want you to make the number up
    it's first base only for you...you're supposed to have a sore
    arm, remember, can't throw, much...otherwise you umpire
    or something...sorry to deprive you of an outing, but your
    pro career in the States is more important, okay?"

    But the soon-to-be emigrant was preoccupied with
    another problem

    “I was thinkin’, Dan “ Ross looked worried “A
    pound to peanuts we can’t get my parents to let
    go of their bread and butter, their pride and joy”

    Conway’s expression turned serious “Yeah, that’s a
    hurdle to overcome...ah, well sufficient unto the
    hour, is the evil thereof...meanwhile, lets go hammer
    those 'Mongers!"
    Last edited by Rongar; 03-14-2015 at 01:35 PM.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  6. #21
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
    16,820

    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    April 7th 1938

    Alf and Ellen Tarreg were surprisingly amenable to
    the suggestion of their eldest son’s departure for foreign
    shores after listening in silence to Dan and Ross as
    the pair of dusty ballplayers made their pitch, to
    them in their drawing -room, the shop having closed
    for the day.

    “Means you’ll have to pull your weight in the shop
    a bit more, Father...” Mrs Tarreg addressed her
    spouse “...can’t expect me to do it all, what with the
    kids, and all”

    “Don’t give me that...” said Alf, scornfully “...you love
    workin in that shop...natterin’ all day wi’ the locals
    ...'sides, I can never remember the prices o’ stuff,
    like you an’ Ross can...you leave the kids t’ me...
    you know I c’n cook a bit, an’ they’ll take more
    notice o’ their father”.

    Dan winced as Ross now proceeded to gild the lily

    “An’ look at it this way, Mum an’ Dad...the shop’ll
    be supportin’ only five of you, with me, gone...and
    once I get on my feet over there, I can send you
    some money, regular”

    Mrs Tarreg sniffed “ We’ll believe that when we
    see it, young man...meanwhile, I s’pose you gotta go out
    into the world sometime, and if there’s a chance of
    a steady job these days - you ought to take it - no
    matter where it is... ”

    His father who possessed an old soldier’s humour
    put in with a grin “An’ it’s not like we’re losin’ a son, is it?
    ...more like gainin’ an extra coupla pints at the local!”

    “Don’t you mind him...” advised the mother
    “... ‘Course he’ll miss you, Son, same as I will...but the great thing
    is, if war comes, you’ll be well out of it...sometimes
    I worry so much about that Hitler, that I wish that I
    could send all my kids out of it, away from the
    bombing, an’ that”

    “Yeah...” growled Alf Tarreg, who’d been gassed in
    ‘the war to end all wars’ “...You don’t want to serve
    in our Kate, over ‘ere, Boy...I ‘ad a basinful o’ that,
    m’self, ..yus, you go on out of it.”

    “And God bless you, Son” whispered Ross Tarreg’s
    mother.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  7. #22
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    Note: The Marines were scheduled to play the Mayfair Toffs, but owing to the defection of both Dan
    Conway, and Ross Tarreg, and many others down with Spring colds, the Toffs were unable to supply a full roster, therefore, having to cancel the fixture, causing manager Chet Ruskin of the Marines to phone around, and fix up a game with the otherwise idle Star Blazers

    Code:
    	
    
    Paddington Star Blazers (5-2) at Embassy Marines (6-2)
    
    April 22nd, 1938
      	1 	2 	3 	4 	5 	6 	7 	8 	9 	R 	H 	E
     Blazers 1 	0 	0 	0 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	3 	11 	3
    Marines 1 	0 	2 	0 	2 	5 	0 	0 	x 	10 	12 	1
    	
    
    Star Blazers 	AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    B Challinor CF 	5 	2 	0 	2 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.299
    N Decker 1B 	5 	3 	0 	1 	0 	1 	0 	1 	.287
    C Mohon 3B 	3 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.233
    E Fox SS 	4 	2 	0 	0 	0 	2 	0 	0 	.354
    J Moran LF 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.254
    S Wrentham C 	4 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.244
    N Burkatov RF 	3 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.431
    L MacSimon 2B 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	2 	0 	.259
    C Christou P 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.250
    J Seaward P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    T Loui P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    G Broderick PH 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.242
    Totals        	35 	11 	1 	3 	0 	3 	4 	1 	 
    
    2B: Noah Decker (7), Ed Fox (6), Greg Broderick (2), John Moran (4), Brian Challinor (7)
    HBP: Chris Mohon, Norman Burkatov
    GDP: John Moran, Lee MacSimon
    
    E: Ed Fox, John Moran, Lee MacSimon
    	
    Marines 	 AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    Dan Conway C 	5 	3 	0 	3 	0 	1 	0 	2 	.338
    PFC P Smith 2B 	4 	1 	1 	1 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.172
    LT A Krjwski 1B4 	3 	0 	2 	0 	2 	0 	0 	.625
    PFC J Evrhrt LF5 	2 	0 	2 	2 	5 	0 	0 	.211
    PFC R Hlliday3B4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.352
    C Ruskin SS 	4 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.307
    PFC K Inglls RF3 	0 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	.348
    B Verreault CF 	3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.333
    PFC D Wilson P 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	2 	0 	.000
    PFC J Diggs P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    CPL B Ellswrth PH 1 	1 	0 	1 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.302
    PFC A Wllms P 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    Totals 	     36 	12 	2 	10 	2 	10 	2 	3 	 
    
    2B: PFC Ryan Holliday (8), PFC Peter Smith (4), Brian Verreault (1)
    HR: PFC Joey Everhart 2 (3)
    
    DP: Chet Ruskin 2, PFC Peter Smith 2, LT Avery Krajewski 2
    E: PFC Ryan Holliday
    
    Star Blazers 	IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    C Christou 	5.1 	8 	1 	1 	7 	6 	2 	84 	4.11
    Jesse Seaward 	2.1 	3 	1 	1 	3 	3 	0 	44 	3.12
    Troy Loui 	0.1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	8 	5.73
    Totals        	8.0 	12 	2 	2 	10 	9 	2 	136 	 
    	
    Marines      	IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    PFC D Wilson 	4.2 	7 	0 	0 	3 	3 	3 	63 	4.76
    PFC J Diggs 	1.1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	11 	0.00
    PFC A Williams 	3.0 	3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	45 	1.62
    Totals        	9.0 	11 	1 	0 	3 	3 	4 	119 	 
    
    WP: PFC Justin Diggs (1-0)
    LP: Cullen Christou (1-1)
    SV: PFC Austin Williams (1)
    	
    Temperature: 56F
    Wind: 7 MPH (right to left)
    Attendance: N/A 
    Time: 2:24
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  8. #23
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    21st April 1938

    Dan didn’t actually play for the Marines until the
    21st of the month; until then he had stood off,
    watching his new charges at their practices and
    actual games, getting to know the players as far as
    was possible, for the faces kept changing, their
    watch-keeping, which dated back from their naval
    beginnings, which was spread out so as to give each
    Marine, equal time off over a period of weeks.

    This system gave every Marine who desired to, a
    chance to turn out for the baseball team, at various
    times through the season.

    First off, Dan had cannily ingratiated himself with
    the men, by ordering a regular copy of the “Baseball
    Digest” to be delivered to the Embassy, to be much
    thumbed over by the Marines, who, almost to a
    man, wanted to, literally, know the score back home.

    He was prepared to pay a six-monthly subscription,
    out of his own pocket, organizing delivery through
    the Tarreg news/con/tob shop, but his new-found
    friend, Chet Ruskin, even more cannily, phoned
    Colonel McCormick and told him of Dan’s plan,
    whereas the delighted publisher, always gung-ho
    where the American military was concerned,
    immediately offered to oversee that subscription
    out of the Tribune’s not-so-petty cash coffers,
    as the secretary - a foxy civil servant, if there
    ever was one - had angled for.

    Another reason for Conway’s delay in actually
    playing for the Marines, although he often took part in
    their practices, was that he wanted to be able to
    keep up with them, physically.

    He, of course, had undergone the series of
    strengthening and conditioning drills that the
    Hudson Springers had required its players to
    undergo in February, to render them
    match-fit, and he had kept in pretty good shape
    since then, but these men were fighting fit,
    following a regimen of physical training, that made
    Conway shudder to behold.

    A few days ago, he had arranged with the team’s
    manager, Ruskin, that he should take his place
    behind the plate, relieving the good-natured, and
    stoic PFC Trav Brockman, who always seemed to be
    either in Staff-sergeant Dave Bennett’s doghouse,
    or bravely willing to tread where no other Marine
    wanted to go - backstopping the pitcher.

    Ruskin had also insisted that Dan skipper the team,
    not only this being entirely natural for a player-coach,
    to do, but it would relieve him, Ruskin, of that
    burden...Chet admitted privately to the newcomer,
    that he had always felt uncomfortable, as a civilian,
    in directing these well-drilled and competent
    professional military men. Conway felt no such
    discomfort...he had played professional ball, and
    knew what was required, as a catcher, even more so
    than any amateur player; he had addressed the
    troops, informally. on the subject in the Marine’s
    mess-hall. the evening before the game, talking down to them.

    “I’ve been watching you all playin’ and practisin’
    this past coupla weeks, and I see that you’re very
    good, an’ that you’re havin’ a lotta fun...but since,
    as your player-coach, you’re payin’ me all these big
    bucks (general laughter), I gotta tell you, you’ll do
    it better, and have even more fun doin’ it the pro
    way.

    No pro says 'It’s only a game’, a pro makes every
    play, as if it 's the crucial one in the bottom o’ the
    ninth, the score tied, two out, a man in scoring
    position, and it’s the seventh game o’ the World
    Series.

    A pro in the field moves to back up his team-mates’
    play, no matter where it is batted; thus say the batter
    bunts to the third baseman who swoops in, while the
    short -stop covers his base and the other infielders
    cover their bases ready to take part in a rundown, or
    field a wide throw, whatever, same with the outfielders,
    they come in to gather anything that should roll their
    way; in your heads, you’re always figuring how a
    particular play could go wrong, and what you’re gonna
    do about it.

    Talkin’ a heads, keep yours in the game always... no
    exchange of 'Up yours’ wi’ that wiseass in the stands
    who keeps hecklin’ you, no flirtin’ wi’ them lollipops
    that hang around the outfield fence...least of all, do
    you let the the other team’s chatter get into your
    heads, such as they say of a batter “He can’t hit”, or
    they chant to a pitcher “He throws fat ones”

    On the other hand, you try to play wi’ their minds -
    physically, you got two strikes on 'em, anyway, they
    bein’ mostly soft civilians wi’ sedentary jobs...I don’t
    want you makin’ nice with 'em when you, or they,
    are on base.

    They make a comment, or ask a question, you just
    glare at 'em, as if you’d like permission from your
    officer commandin’ to eat 'em alive, keep your game
    face on all the time, an’ never never fraternize
    with 'em.

    This is not just f’r the good of your team, Marines,
    but for the good of the Corps, for the good of your
    country...these are troubled times, Guys... God
    forbid that we Americans get mixed up in a bloody
    European war, again, but as in baseball, you gotta
    imagine the worst case scenario, and assume its
    gonna happen, so you prepare for it. You do not
    fraternize, hear me?

    These English seem pretty good folk wi’ their nice
    manners, an’ three-dollar words, an’ I know that
    they’re supposed to be our cousins, and all, but isn’t
    that the perfect cover for a con -artist...or a spy?

    In this foreign country, all we can trust, one
    hundred percent, are our fellow -Americans.

    One more thing, Marines...the English have this
    snide thing they call “sportsmanship” which is a
    fancy word for “loser”. Over here, they say, you’re
    not supposed to hit a man when he’s down;
    kayo him when he’s on the ropes, or slide in wi’
    your spikes up, above all, if you lose, you’re
    supposed to say...” Conway imitated an English
    accent, here " ‘...Good show, Old Chap...Pip,
    Pip...don’t feel bad, it’s only a game’ ...” uneasy
    laughter from his audience “...Well, as your coach,
    I don’t want you to lose - ever - because pro
    baseball, Marines, is not just a game...it’s war
    ...and as men of war you gotta play it that
    way...the opponent says 'The game’s the thing’ we
    say 'winning the game is the thing’ “

    Conway finished with what he hoped was a rousing holler of
    “Go, Marines, go!”, but it fell a little flat...instead of a roar of acclaim,
    there was some uneasy shuffling amongst the men, some nervous laughter,
    a scattering of applause from a few gung-ho types.

    Even his suave friend, Chet Ruskin, looked a little
    shaken as he buttonholed Dan after his fiery oration.

    “Goddamit, Dan, that was over the line...what’re you
    tryin’ to do, start World War two, with these guys?”

    Conway looked about him swiftly, and nobody else
    being nearby - indeed, everyone seemed inclined to
    back away from him - retorted. “Like you, Chet, I start with
    the handicap of being a civilian amongst these
    fighting men..” he explained “...unlike you, I’ve got
    something going for me...I can play better ball than
    these guys, that’s strike one in my favour...if I can
    come over as even redder in tooth and claw, than
    these warriors, that’s strike two...strike three
    comes when they start winning 'cos they’re more
    afraid of me, than the opposition”

    “They probably think that you’re demented”
    murmured Chet looking around at the crowd of
    Marines now dispersing into small groups of men,
    talking in low, awestruck tones, or drifting away,
    altogether.

    “Is that such a bad thing...?” demanded Dan
    “...look at Ty Cobb...if ever a guy was shy a coupla
    cards in a deck, it was he...an’ now he’s in the Hall
    of Fame....not that I want to be there...just to win,
    tomorrow, is all”

    “I’m concerned by what your obvious contempt for
    the Brits will do to the outlook of our men..."
    complained the secretary “...after all, we’re
    supposed to be in a friendly country “

    “You kiddin’ ...?” demanded Dan “ A country that
    has a Commie newspaper, a country that allows a
    Fascist political party run by a guy who’s a member
    of the Brit aristocracy. related to the Queen, fer
    Chrissake - Oswald Moseley’s lot?”

    “Well, that’s the English idea of democracy...”
    pointed out Ruskin “...keep your friends, close, and
    your enemies closer...by letting them rant out loud,
    they - and we Americans - know what they’re up to”

    “Yeah, but that’s just the enemies we know about...
    said Dan bitterly “What the American public is not
    aware of, is what the British public really
    thinks of us...do you know what the popular Limey joke of
    the Great War of 1917 was, when our Doughboys
    came over to pull them out of the mess that they’d
    gotten themselves into...?”

    The secretary shook his head “I was a mere
    schoolboy, then”

    “The joke was ‘They’re over-paid; they’re over-fed;
    they’re over-sexed; and they’re over here’...how friendly is that? ”

    Chet shook his head again “We shouldn’t take it to heart,
    Dan...it was ever thus...the way of the world...the
    eternal inferiority complex...one nation flourishes,
    the declining nations resent it...it’s tough at the top...
    nobody loves you...the Romans were hated, as were
    all the imperialists since...the British today, are the
    most reviled people in the world because of their
    Empire...you watch, Laddie, in time, it’ll be our
    turn”

    “Whatever...” grunted Dan Conway “...just as long as
    us Yanks win tomorrow, and don’t get dragged into
    war, down the road”[/QUOTE]
    Last edited by Rongar; 03-04-2015 at 12:46 PM.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  9. #24
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    "Cons galore"

    23rd April 1938

    Having been directed by the secretary, Ruskin,
    to deliver his passenger, Ross Tarreg, to the
    American Embassy gates by midday, Dan picked up
    the young Briton at the shop a mere half-hour hour, before,
    Mount Street being in the same district -Mayfair- as Number One,
    Grosevenor Square, where the American Embassy
    had located to, conveniently enough, at the
    beginning of the year.

    On the way, Conway briefed his protege’.

    “ They won’t tell me as a civilian how they’re going
    to transport you, but I reckon it’ll be the way I came
    over the Pond...by flying-boat. The military are
    keeping it under their hat, but I happen to know
    they’re developing something with Douglas which
    can do it in one hop... a doubtful blessing 'cos if it
    gets too easy to ferry warplanes across the
    Atlantic, it’ll only encourage those liberal idiots back
    in the States to get into it with Germany”

    “Yeah, but surely they’d ship the ground troops over by sea,
    like they did in the Great War...” remarked Ross,
    interested in the topic, despite his high excitement
    over his high adventure. “...if your lot came in on the side
    o’ Britain and France, we got them big liners, the 'Mary,
    an’ the Normandie, wi’ the 'Lizzie bein’ built, also”

    “No, lad...” the newsman shook his head “ ... Jerry’s
    nasty little U- boats are bigger and better than ever,
    and I happen to know that they’re building them in
    packs right now...man, they were bad enough in the
    last war but now...” he shuddered at his own thoughts,
    even as the idea for his next weekly piece for the Tribune, began
    to form in his mind “... We send off our boys to Europe in boats,
    the poor sod’s 'll never get there...those goddam subs
    will pick them off like flies!”

    There was a sombre silence for a while, then Dan
    resumed his briefing “ The Marines probably charter
    a flying boat from Pan-Am, no runways over here long
    enough for the big passenger planes we have, now,
    over there.

    That’ll give you a trip of, oh, about 36-48 hours,
    including the Marine bus taking you down to
    Southampton Water, where you’ll pick up your
    seaplane ride, hopping from there to Ireland; to
    Greenland; to Labrador; down to Newark...helluva
    journey.

    You’ll be in good company, though, Ross,
    those Marines are great guys...'course, they’ll razz
    you a little at first, you being a Limey and all, but
    you take it in good part, and give some of it back
    - those haircuts! - you’ll be alright...in fact, it won’t
    hurt if you drop that you’re trying out for the Cubs,
    - almost to a man, they’re baseball-crazy, and you’ll be in like Flynn!”

    “An’ o’ course, I can talk baseball with 'em till the
    cows come home, all those ‘Digests’ I’ve read back
    at the shop...” pointed out Ross.

    The gate to the Embassy now coming into view, the pair
    made their goodbyes “Well, keep in touch, Ross, you have
    my address, and we can follow your progress through the Digest
    - they’re good with the minor teams - and make me proud, okay?”

    Conway stopped the Rover at the gate, and they shook
    hands - men did not hug in those days, no matter how
    emotional the occasion - before Ross stepped out to be
    escorted into the Embassy by a grinning Marine who
    Dan recognized as the backup short-stop,
    Private First Class Hefferman,who gratified Conway
    with a smart salute for his baseball coach.

    Ross watched his two proteges disappear into the Embassy
    building, then turned the Rover into the direction of
    Prussia House, which served as the German Embassy.
    He had an idea (To be continued).
    Last edited by Rongar; 03-04-2015 at 12:51 PM.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  10. #25
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
    16,820

    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    London, 1938
    George Tarreg always would have indistinct, but pleasant
    memories of his first school. It happened to be a
    Catholic one, “Holy Trinity", partly, he always
    supposed, because his mother was of that Faith,
    primarily, because it was conveniently located
    at one end of Mount Street, where his family lived.

    He had a vague memory, that for his first two years
    there, he and his fellow“infants"-the official classification
    of children under the age of nine - were engaged in
    nothing but happy creative projects in which the
    tiny boys and girls were allowed to daub water paint
    on various objects, including themselves, or fashion
    models out of that wonderful adaptable material
    known as plasticine, or modeling clay.

    George learned years later from his mother that she
    was quite disturbed to hear George’s teacher,
    Miss Cockayne, describe how the seven-year old
    was apt to form clumsy plasticine models of
    female bodies, which he then stabbed ferociously
    with a pencil, or fashioned male faces,which he later
    proceeded to beat to an unrecognizable
    pulp.

    Her fears were allayed when the teacher, the school
    Principal, in fact, with a degree in Child Psychology
    assured the apprehensive mother than her son was
    exhibiting normal male behavior at that age, and as
    he grew to maturity, all being well, he would
    recognize these tendencies in himself, become
    repelled by them, dismiss them to the realms of
    fantasy, and apply himself to becoming civilized,
    and acceptable to polite society.

    This probably accounted for George, later, becoming a model citizen,
    obeying the law, paying his taxes, and later, in his new country,
    standing at a deserted traffic intersection at three o'clock in
    the morning, waiting for the "walk" signal, as would any other
    patient Canadian.

    However, George, under the sober patina, remained possessed
    of a lurid imagination, from which he found catharsis in later life,
    by writing strident dialogue, and purple prose.

    He learned four important things at Holy Trinity,
    that would serve him for the rest of his life -the
    addends that make up the sum of ten, e.g. 1+9; 2+8;
    3+7; etc, that he would find invaluable in totting up
    lists of figures, in sterling; dollars; and baseball
    statistics.

    The Biblical sermon on Faith; Hope; and
    Charity, the meaning of the latter he would ponder
    for evermore, along with the Shakespearean quotation,
    “The conscience which doth make cowards of us all”
    these serving as mental barbells for his thought
    processes to work out on, eternally wondering
    what they meant, developing in him a taste
    for philosophy, where, defeated by the abstruseness
    of the various schools of thought, he eventually formed
    his own theory, that it was intellectually more
    rewarding to formulate profound questions, than to
    arrive at shallow answers.

    For example: “What is life?...a happy accident? ...
    a vale of tears?...a stepping stone?...a stumbling
    block...? ...a book which may be read and understood
    (the butler did it!), to the very end, or is, tragically,
    fated to be interrupted, after a chapter or so... ?
    ...a series of pastures through which the individual
    grazes, until, if Fate decrees, he is able to settle in
    his final resting place, ruminating on what has gone
    before, until he sleeps, at last?”

    Miss Cockayne, besides being knowledgeable about
    children, was quite the most attractive of the many
    women teachers whom young George was to come
    to know during the war years, when the male ranks
    of pedagogy were so thinned by the call to arms.

    Those ladies, poor dears, mostly seemed to be kindly
    but plain spinsters, no longer in the first bloom of youth,
    perhaps making up for - in his, George’s, perception - the
    lack of romance in their lives, by lavishing their unrequited
    love on George, and his fellow boys and girls.

    He always liked to think so, and without his realizing it,
    these women became his conscience in later life, he forbearing to
    diss someone, perhaps, because the mannerly Miss
    Vines always went easy on his many errors, or
    whenever an elderly female panhandler extended
    her paper cup towards him for alms, he groped for
    small change, in his pocket, remembering that
    generous Miss Bacon, who bought him a bag of
    marbles for his birthday, out of her own meagre teacher’s
    salary.

    In his later writings, whenever George had one of his
    fictional working-and- middle-class characters
    split a dangling participle -whatever that is - as
    real working-and- middle-class folk are wont to do -
    he wondered, guiltily, what the grammarian, Miss Gandhi,
    would say about that.

    In short, wee Georgie Tarreg had acquired himself
    a set of role models through life.
    Last edited by Rongar; 03-04-2015 at 12:58 PM.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  11. #26
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
    16,820

    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    A Ross Tarreg game
    Code:
    	
    
    Gulf Coast Indians (0-1) at Hudson Springers (1-0)
    
    May 2, 1938
      	1 	2 	3 	4 	5 	6 	7 	8 	9 	R 	H 	E
    Indians 0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	3 	0
    Springers 0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	1 	0 	0 	x 	2 	7 	0
    	
    
    Indians	     AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    P Evans CF 	4 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.750
    J Dugre 3B 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.000
    R Darmody LF 	1 	0 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    L Gray 1B 	3 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	2 	0 	.000
    T Woodwoe RF 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	2 	0 	.000
    J Stebelton C 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    A McFdzn 2B 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	3 	0 	.000
    R Gilfix SS 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.000
    S Schtbrger P 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.000
    T Sundup PH 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.000
    Totals 	      26 	3 	4 	0 	0 	0 	11 	0 	 
    
    GDP: Les Gray
    CS: Peter Evans 2
    
    	
    Springers    	AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    A Parko CF 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.250
    B Schuster SS 	3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.333
    B Dahlgren 1B 	3 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.000
    M Livingston C 	3 	2 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	.667
    F Secory RF 	4 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    I Goodman LF 	3 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.333
    S Martin 2B 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.000
    Ji Foxx 3B 	3 	2 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	.667
    Ross Tarreg P 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    Totals 	      27 	7 	3 	2 	0 	2 	1 	2 	 
    
    
    DP: Stu Martin, Bill Schuster, Ross Tarreg
    
    Indians 	IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    S Schtbrgr 	8.0 	7 	3 	0 	2 	2 	1 	108 	2.25
    Totals 	8.0 	7 	3 	0 	2 	2 	1 	108 	 
    	
    Springers 	IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    R Tarreg 	9.0 	3 	4 	0 	0 	0 	11 	115 	0.00
    Totals 	9.0 	3 	4 	0 	0 	0 	11 	115 	 
    
    WP: Ross Tarreg (1-0)
    LP: Steve Schaitberger (0-1)
    	
    Temperature: 78F
    Wind: 8 MPH (out to center)
    Attendance: 9,814
    Time: 2:10
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  12. #27
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
    16,820

    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    Once aboard the flying -boat, crowded with homeward -bound
    Americans, Ross found himself next to a cheery
    Marine, another ballplayer, PFC Peter Bromwich,
    who happened to be from Chicago, and a great fan
    of the Cubs.

    “I’ve always followed the Dodgers, myself...” confessed Ross
    “..but I’d be proud to make it up to the Cubbies
    first team, play with the likes of Gabby Hartnett, and Dizzy
    Dean”

    “Ah, Dizzy’s hurtin’ right now...” the young Private
    shook his head “Ow!...shouldn’t a done that...” clapping
    a hand to his forehead “ I got me a concussion...
    the reason I’m headin’ back Stateside fer treatment”

    “Baseball injury?” inquired Ross, sympathetically

    “Yeah, goddam pitcher beaned me in Spring
    Training, the sonofabitch got mad 'cos I kept
    foulin’ him off...the ol’ Staff gave him payback ,
    though...” Bromwich went on proudly “Homered
    off him next inning”.

    “Anyways, that chucker wasn’t near as fast as you,
    kid...I seen you in action earlier this month at the
    Park..you sure got heat, man...you’ll do good in
    America ...what Cubs farm team you playin’ for?”

    “Hudson Springers, down in Florida”

    “A summer o’ baseball in that heat?...fukk your horrible
    luck, Buddy!”

    “Oh, I dunno...” said Ross “Dan, himself, has played down
    there in both pro and college...he reckons you soon
    get used to it.”

    Mention of the Embassy Marines new player-coach,
    jogged Bromwich into continuing.

    “Say, that coach o’ yours is somethin’ else, again,
    ain’t he?...how long you known him?”

    It came as a shock for Ross to recall “ Blimey...
    what, three weeks?...yeah..” in wonderment
    “...less’n a month ago, I’d not set eyes on him, and
    look at me now, my life’s changed forever,
    whatever happens...”

    “Yeah, ours too, as ballplayers...” agreed the Marine
    as if the two phenomena were at all comparable
    “...when I’m fit again, I’ll feel like goin’ out and
    murderin’ the opposition...you shoulda heard his
    pep-talk, the other night”

    Ross nodded “Yeah, I can imagine...
    Dan’s got the gift o’ the gab, all right
    ...he’s only tryin’ to talk us all out of another
    war”

    The journey across the Atlantic was as long and dreary,
    as Dan Conway had predicted, but things perked up
    once they hit Newark, the band of
    passengers dispersing, few of them heading South with Ross,
    none of them, Marines.

    He found that Ross had cabled ahead to the Hudson Springers
    who had arranged a ticket for him to fly on a regularly
    scheduled flight to Tampa airport on one of those
    new Douglas D3s which were going to prove so very
    useful in America’s future.

    Ross arrived, thoroughly worn out in Tampa airport, where
    an official of the Springers organization met him, to drive him the
    forty miles down to Port Richey Stadium.

    After a quick introduction to the Head Coach, Bill Heatherington,
    a pleasant greying ex-pitcher, himself, as well as the Club
    tailor to be measured for Ross' uniform, it was arranged
    that Tarreg room with Charlie Whittaker, Dan Conway’s
    former team-mate, who was vastly relieved to have a
    new partner in sharing the rental for the mobile
    home, and running the ancient Ford, Ross being
    granted an allowance of one-hundred and fifty
    dollars right away, for initial expenses. which
    Charlie estimated that Ross could live on, in style
    for a month, down here in Florida, where the cost of
    living - due to high unemployment - was even lower
    in 1938 than the rest of the depressed United States.

    Tarreg was granted a couple of days off to
    recuperate in the F80 temperature, and to swim in
    the Hudson Springs, around which the mobile home
    park was set up, then was requested to come to the stadium on
    May 1st to be fitted with his uniform, and to do
    some easy throwing, with a view to starting
    against the Gulf Coast Indians, an affiliate of the
    major-league Cleveland club, the next day, the
    Springers’ rotation, really stricken by injuries, lately.

    The coach watched with approval as Ross pitched to
    the practice catcher, a youth named Bob Collins.

    After a while Heatherington asked him “Do you feel
    up to pitching tomorrow, Son”

    “You bet, Coach...” said Ross, intent on merging
    into the team right away, by adopting their enthusiasm,
    and idioms “...I’m rarin’ to go!”
    Last edited by Rongar; 01-15-2013 at 10:04 PM.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  13. #28
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
    16,820

    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    "Cons, galore" (continued)

    The secretary to the German Ambassador was very
    polite, and spoke excellent English.

    “Ah, Herr Conway, permit us to compliment you on your
    article in the estimable -ah - Tribune...a little harsh
    on us Germans, perhaps, but an accurate account of
    history...Empires are doomed to fail...countries like
    our own, destined to grow...how can we help you?”

    “Sir, ...” began Dan - he couldn’t begin to attempt to pronounce
    the guy’s name “...I’ve come here on the assumption
    that neither of us wants to war with each other -
    Germany or my country”

    “Germany does’n’t want war with anyone...” purred
    the other “...we only demand our territorial rights”

    “Exactly...” nodded Conway “...most of us in
    America understand that...but Mr Roosevelt and a
    few other warmongers in my country don’t seem to.
    ..so I’ve been sent over here by my boss, Colonel
    McCormick...you know of him?”

    The other nodded “Of course...a fine soldier...” he
    smiled ruefully “...against us, in 1917...but now, a
    sensible man of peace”

    “Well, anyway, he’s sent me over here to scare the
    bejezus out of those few folks back home who want
    to join in if - God forbid -Britain goes to war with
    you”

    “Ah, you Americans...” smiled the German “So eloquent
    in your idioms...but, I take your point...a laudable
    object...how can we help?”

    “By telling me how many submarines you’re building right
    now!”

    The secretary looked shocked “Herr Conway, you
    are asking me to commit -ah - suicide, to get myself
    shot ...why should I give you such information?”

    “So’s I can use it to point out to the warmongers,
    that the Atlantic will be teeming with U-boats,
    and if they send any of our boys out in ships
    to fight in Europe, they’d be sending those boys
    to, themselves, commit suicide...
    and I didn’t say ' correct information',
    I just said 'information’...get me?

    Dan paused as the secretary looked puzzled
    “Of course,...” the reporter continued “...off the top
    of my head, I could just write a guess of say, what,
    one hundred and fifty submarines a-building...?”

    The German chuckled “Come, now, Herr Conway,
    nobody would believe that we could build that many
    U-boats in so short a time...”

    “Winston Churchill would...he believes that you guys are
    supermen in that regard...he always crying the blues
    that you’re re-arming like there’s no tomorrow”

    “I’m afraid Mr Churchill would not be of use to
    you in scaring your American people...” remarked the German
    dryly “...nobody listens to him over here, in England...he’s a voice
    in the wilderness”

    “ Yeah, but I have in mind a different audience, Sir...
    the majority of Americans who, like myself, and
    Colonel McCormick, and Joe Kennedy, want to
    believe that it’s futile to go up against the Germans”


    “Say..." he went on “...What if you printed some
    information - any scary information- on official Embassy
    notepaper with a German heading, which I could
    -er- filch...?” Conway ventured “...We American
    newsmen have a reputation for getting hold of
    unauthorized stuff, all I have to do is wave such
    papers under the nose of any doubters, and
    refuse to say how I got hold of them”

    “Yes, and nobody would punish you...” observed
    the German “So different in America...that would
    never do in our country...but I think I see what you
    mean...I will consult with the Ambassador upon your
    scheme, Herr Conway...if he agrees, we will print
    some -ah- scary figures, which you can, how do you
    say...filch? ...while our back is turned; that will
    impress those Americans who mistakenly believe that we Germans
    want war...in fact we desire peace with the British and
    French, if only they would extend the hand of
    friendship”

    “You don’t have to preach to me, Mr Secretary...”
    grunted Dan “I’m one of the converted...now if
    you’ll kindly check with Herr von Dirksen, I’ll wait
    around. if you don’t mind. while you print up our
    Americans’ worst nightmare”
    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    The German Ambassador was skeptical at first
    “Ach, why would we wish to spread false information...?”
    he rhetorically asked his secretary, when that worthy
    reported Conway’s offer, as the American reporter
    waited in the ante-room “...Everyone knows that England
    would never go to war over what we do in Europe...
    Chamberlain is too aware of what even a victorious
    war would do to his country, and its Empire...the latter
    to dissolve, the parent country to dissipate into a third-rate
    has-been, little kingdom, obsessed alike only with sport; monarchy;
    and celebrity.”

    “ But war is coming, Meinherr...” pointed out the secretary
    “Even if it is only restricted to Czchekoslovakia and
    with Poland, as the Fuehrer desires...and in any war,
    as our great von Bismark, himself, pointed out, one can never
    have too many advantages...I believe this young American
    journalist to be a future valuable asset to us...he, himself,
    asserts, that he wants to believe that we would never do
    anything to justify American intervention...today, we could
    sink a dozen Lusitanias, and Mr Conway’s newspaper, the
    Chicago Tribune, would persuade his countrymen that this was
    no cause for war”

    The Ambassador grunted “You make sense, Josef...
    we have much to possibly gain, nothing, that I can
    see, to lose...very well...print a copy of those estimates,
    right away for him...oh, and be sure that they are accurate
    ...your Mr Conway may be very clever, but there are also
    clever journalists writing for the other side...if we
    bluff with inflated figures, they will try to call that
    bluff, thereby, embarrassing those American friends
    of ours like Colonel McCormick, and Ambassador
    Kennedy, perhaps even alienating them...the correct
    estimates of our U-boat power should be intimidatory,
    enough"
    Last edited by Rongar; 03-19-2015 at 01:55 PM.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  14. #29
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
    16,820

    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    Now with Ross gone to America, George’s mother
    would keep the boy at home to help with the
    increased workload upon the diminished
    homework -force, detaching George from school as
    often as she dared, so as not to bring the “school
    board” (truant officer) around to the shop too much
    to ask after the missing pupil.

    On such occasions, she made much of the lad’s anemia,
    using her forbears’ Irish charm and eloquence into beguiling
    the ‘Board, unfamiliar as he was with that medical condition,
    into accepting that her boy had to conserve his limited
    strength and energy, by staying at home, a day or two,
    the better to avail himself of such schooling when he returned
    to the classroom.

    Little did the 'Board suspect that young George
    happily expended more strength and energy on his
    ‘recuperative’ days off, than ever he was obliged to
    on a schoolday at Holy Trinity!

    With Ross now gone, Mrs Tarreg now mainly ran the
    shop, whilst her husband, Alf, kept an eye on the two
    youngest, Audrey 3, and Billy, not yet 2 years old,
    cooked the meals, and generally did the bits and pieces
    of a housewife’s normal day - except for the shopping,
    which, in the true British working-macho fashion of
    the day he professed to abhor, dispatching George
    on the various errands to grocers; greengrocers;
    butchers; and street bookies, etc, whenever the boy
    was available.

    This would be on Saturdays; George’s -er- 'sick days’
    plus after -school on the days that he did attend.

    The usual school day ended at four p.m. leaving
    ample time for the lad to visit shops which remained
    open, generally, until 5.30, or 6. P.M. except for
    1 p.m. on Wednesday...'Early Closing Day’ a
    widely-observed custom - followed even by the
    indefatigable Mrs Tarreg, who now virtually logged
    84 hours each week in her news/con/tob shop - to
    relieve the strain of an average sixty-hour work week.

    To run an efficient general store, was probably the
    surest way for the working-poor of London, in the
    'Thirties to put food on the table, while almost two
    million unemployed workers would gladly have paid
    the heavy price of those long hours.

    George also filled in the domestic gaps starting with
    stirring the daily oatmeal breakfast pot; - except for
    Sundays when boiled eggs still ruled- through
    minding the kids when his Dad was working outside;
    or taking a nap; to running errands at his dad’s
    direction, bearing shopping lists for the shopkeeper
    to read, and George to remember the prices thereof.

    On the errands where he could return, bearing lighter
    merchandise, such as rabbit-meat, or a rack of lamb
    from the butchers, or a loaf from the bakers,
    he could hang the shopping-bag from the handle of
    the scooter, left by his late brother, Reggie.

    George loved to dig his foot rapidly into the sidewalk
    propelling the machine to a speed where, at the next
    slope, he could place both feet on the scooter’s narrow
    platform and glide down the inclines that he came to,
    much like the skateboarders of today.

    The Tarreg’s scooter was a novelty, in that it was
    factory-made, of light metal, bought by loving
    parents who, no doubt, wished to indulge their
    dying son, Reginald, who, tragically, due to his
    rheumatic heart, probably had little enough
    strength- and time - left to him, to enjoy it.

    George was later to discover the world of hand-made
    scooters, fashioned out of wood, and ball-bearings,
    and love, probably by fathers who, lacking the
    means to buy for their children, the ready-made items,
    did the best they could, with what was to hand
    -and a very good best it was, those wooden scooters
    were noisy but sturdy, and though, being,
    necessarily, constructed with handles,
    they didn’t call for the skills and dexterity of today’s
    youthful skateboarders, the kids of pre-war London,
    certainly enjoyed them.

    Dad was now, also the one who washed the laundry
    doing this of a Sunday, when the schools and most
    shops - news/tob/cons generally keeping the same hours as on
    Wednesday- alike, were closed, and young George
    available to scrub the soap and dirt out on the
    washboard- which job, he disliked, his father forever,
    exhorting the small boy to “Put some elbow-grease”
    into it, as Tarreg, Senior. rinsed out the soap by
    dipping the cleansed article in and out of the boiling
    water in the deep stone copper set in the back yard.

    George had witnessed that same copper being used
    in macabre fashion, also - to drown unwanted kittens.

    He had watched as his father had wrapped the three
    tiny bundles of mewling fur in a towel, and thrust them
    deep into the - mercifully, now cold - water, and held
    them down at the bottom of the copper with that
    same broomstick with which he fished out the
    laundry, until the squirming and writhing within the
    towel had ceased.

    Once satisfied of the kittens’ demise, Alf now
    brought the bundle to the surface, displaying the
    little dead felines to his son. It was ironic, that
    George, who later became noted in his family
    for his love of cats, betrayed no sign of compunction
    at the kitten’s death...probably assuming that if Dad was
    doing it, it must be right.

    Or perhaps there was a sadistic streak within the boy,
    , for he did love operating the mangle, passing
    through the rinsed articles, changing the settings of
    the gaps between the rubber rollers, to narrow down
    until the last drop of moisture was squeezed out

    Meanwhile, his father, mouth full of clothes-pegs, pinned the
    articles to a long clothes line, which, when full, and
    bowed down by the weight of the still-wet linen on it,
    could be hoisted clear of the cobbles, by means of a
    stout pole, with a wedge sawn out of one end to fork
    the clothes line, the other end to be wedged firmly
    in the ground, the tension 'twixt line; pole; and
    ground thus ensuring that the newly-cleaned
    laundry was clear of the dirt. George’s first lesson in
    physics.

    After day was done, the shop closed, and
    teatime over - this meal consisting of sandwiches for
    the adults, bread-and-jam for George; and
    bread-and- hot milk for the little ones, who were
    then 'put down’ for the night, that concoction rendering
    them sleepy anyway.

    George was permitted to stay up a little longer, after
    he had helped with the washing up, and the family
    settled in the living-room, where, by gaslight,
    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gas_mantle
    Dad would read the paper, whilst selfishly hogging
    the crystal radio, which could only be heard by one
    listener via headphones;

    The other members of the family didn’t mind too
    much, Mum , busying herself with needlework,
    or ironing in the kitchen, wherein lay the
    coal - burning cooking range, where she
    could keep the two irons hot, in sequence,
    one of the cast-iron implements, soaking up
    the heat from the range, whilst the other one,
    plied by Mrs Tarreg, smoothed the wrinkles until
    that iron cooled too much to be effective.

    George loved to sit in the kitchen scrawling pictures
    on the copious sheet of paper that the butcher had wrapped
    the meat in , as his mother worked, ostensibly helping her
    as she enumerated out loud, the things to be done
    on the morrow, in the shop.

    “I’ll order a couple of extra ‘Daily Mirrors’..people
    have been asking for them...I think they like that
    Jane comic strip...the hussy goes around, half-naked,
    half the time...better cancel one of those 'Baseball Digests’
    too, now that Ross has gone...” A little catch in her
    throat here, as George chimed in “Better not, Mum...
    one of those ‘Rines’ll buy it...you ask Mr Conway...
    he’ll sell a lot for you...Ross said he’s playin’ for the
    'Rines, now...”

    “There’s a good boy...” Mum acknowledged
    the advice “...I better ask ol’ Solly for some
    more of those Lucky Strikes, too, those Yanks
    smoke like chimneys...how they’ve got the wind
    to play that game o’ theirs,I don’t know ...”
    then severely “Don’t ever let me catch you
    smoking, young man! ... its bad for you”

    “No, Mum.” George said meekly, but resolved to
    try a ciggy one day, also to taste a beer...just to see
    what all the fuss was about.

    Her pressing finished, Mrs Tarreg pushed the irons
    to the back of the range where the kids couldn’t get
    at them and burn their silly selves, while the implements
    cooled over the dying fire.

    “Let me know when this kettle boils, Son...”said she
    now placing it on the still-hot range “While I mix the cocoa
    for Dad and me, and I’ll squeeze a lemon
    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lemon_squeezer
    for a nice hot drink for you...it’ll do your throat good
    ...you’ll be singing like Bing Crosby” she added with
    that touch of humour which she could still summon
    at the end of a long tiring day.

    She left him there then to enjoy one of the best
    moments of his own day, the kettle softly singing as it
    worked up a head of steam; the hiss of the gas
    mantle; the glow of the embers in the stove’s grate;
    all engendering a sense of peace and promise...just
    the atmosphere to ready a seven-year old for bed,
    where his mother tucked him in, after his nice hot
    drink.
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

  15. #30
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
    16,820

    Question Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    This is part of a private email which I've just received

    "Subject: Re: SPIKES

    Rongar, do you think others besides fans might be reading SPIKES too? You
    won't be getting into trouble for any opinions or statements, will you?

    Darn interesting read, and not just as an anglophile...but especially
    from a historical point,"


    My reply (apologies for the upper case, my friend has vision problems)

    IT IS A PUZZLE TO ME, THAT I'VE HAD ABSOLUTELY NO REACTION TO SOME OF THE PROVOCATIVE THINGS I'VE WRITTEN...I'M NOT TRYING TO BE THAT, JUST ACCURATE,IN HISTORY, AND HONEST IN OPINION, BUT I DO EXPECT A REACTION FROM SOME OF THE THINGS I'VE WRITTEN,

    ESPECIALLY WHAT HERR VON DIRKSEN AND JOE KENNEDY SAY ABOUT ENGLAND GOING TO WAR...THEIR ARGUMENTS ARE BEGINNING TO CONVINCE ME! ...THEY ARE SO PROPHETIC.

    TROUBLE IS, DESPITE MY FICTIONAL HERO, ROSS, THE BRIT PITCHER, FEW ENGLISHMEN ARE INTERESTED IN BASEBALL, AND NOT LIKELY TO BE PART OF MY AUDIENCE
    "Whate'er should be our Zodiac's star
    We all are born to make or mar.
    To each is gi'en a bag of tools
    Some mentors, and a set of rules:
    And each must carve, ere life has flown,
    A stumbling block, or a stepping-stone"

    (Author unknown)

    Generation 35.

    "Spikes" The cleats on baseball boots
    "Spikes" On which newspaper editors impale copy for future reference, or ultimate destruction.

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