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

  1. #46
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    "Cons galore" (continued)

    May 1938

    Within the German embassy in London, Hans Minderschnatten,
    secretary to the German ambassador is talking with Maxheim Dorff,
    also known as Dickie Barton, ostensibly, a member of Major Hodder’s Special Unit.

    “We’ve got to stop meeting like this...” said the secretary “...it’s a breach
    of intelligence protocol...supposing our masters in the Admiral’s office
    were to hear of this?” http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/...t/canaris.html

    “Ach, I won’t tell them if you won’t, Hans” his friend joshed him; Max’s
    German was flawless, as befitted one born in the Ruhr Valley, so distinct
    from the gentler area of High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, where Max in his
    role as the Unit’s muscle man, Dickie Barton, claimed to have been born...
    his English, too, when playing that role, of course, was as good as the
    affected Oxbridge drawl of the English upper crust would allow...Max, a
    trained actor, and a born mimic, had that drawl down to a tee, when in
    the English environment.

    His friend, Hans, was a worry-wart, Max reflected, that’s why their careers
    had followed different paths; hand-picked by Major Gempp of the former
    German Abwehr after the Great War, the introvert college student, Minderschnatten,
    had opted for Intelligence analysis, whilst the extrovert professional actor,
    Dorff, liked to go out and gather that Intelligence.

    His task for Germany in pre-war England was to hamper, as far as he could,
    the efforts of Hodder’s Special Unit to apprehend enemy agents operating
    in the London area, and all else failing, once the agent was interred and
    debriefed, ironically, often with his countryman, Dorff’s considerable help
    in strongarming the hapless German agent into Hodder’s custody, Dorff
    was then to inform his friend and handler, Minderschnatten, of the agent’s
    altered status, so that in the event of the British ‘turning’ the agent
    - otherwise, he was shot as a spy, or hanged as a traitor - the Abwehr
    would be aware of this, and profit from the knowledge accordingly,
    thus having the edge over the Brits who would have no idea that every
    capture was reported to the enemy by one of their supposed own.

    “We have a perfectly good drop for your report on Conway...” grumbled
    the secretary “...why risk being spotted coming here?”

    “Take it from me, old Sport, and I’m in a position to know...”
    Max assured him “... our friends in the English Surveillance Unit have
    no idea of the secret entrance to this Embassy, so why should I not
    come in and give a verbal report...so much more comprehensive, what?”

    Although he spoke in German, of course, Dorff, tried to retain his mannerisms
    of speech as an English upper-class twit, staying 'in character’ as Dickie Barton,
    as much as he could - good spies do that as a matter of practice, and good actors
    enjoy playing such an important role, as Maxheim Dorff did.

    “You don’t fool me, Max...” his colleague told the agent “...You like to come in
    and boast of how you cunningly warned Conway of the intention to set
    your own colleague, that Scottish woman on him”

    “Yes, I thought that a jolly nifty ploy, myself..." Max preened “...I’ve
    done my homework on Conway, studied the reports on him by our own
    oppos in the Survellance Unit, where nobody but me seemed to realize
    what keen hearing he has, and how smart he is at putting two and two, together...
    all that I had to do was to act all excited, and yelp out a few key words like ‘Scotty’
    and ‘Ton of bricks’ - I thought for a moment, that the Major had twigged me- and,
    Conway, having a newsman’s retentive memory, once he knew who
    Scotty was, would steer clear of his would-be seductress”

    “I see...” said the secretary, folding his hands, carefully “...and tell me,
    Max, are your British friends still surveilling the American?”

    “No, the Major called off the hounds - the Yank was threatening to sic his
    people at the Embassy onto us, if we did...the gallant Major is a windy
    bugger at heart...frightfully scared lest he brass off those lovely
    Americans whom the Brits hope will save their bacon, like last time, in
    the event of war”

    ”Oh, there will be war all right...” remarked the secretary, bitterly ”Our
    dolt of an Ambassador is so set against Poland, that he has every intention
    of assuring the Fuehrer that Britain and France would not intervene should he attack
    that country, which he intends, if they let him get away with
    Czchechoslovkia." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herbert_von_Dirksen

    Anyway...” he continued “ I have news for you, my friend...” despite the
    news, which he, himself, was dismayed by, Minderschnatten, felt a
    perverse satisfaction over bursting his friend’s boastful bubble; they had
    sparred much in one-upmanship, over the years

    “Our own men have continued to survey the American...” he informed Max “...
    and I can tell you, that he is courting this Scotty woman most assiduously, at this time”

    Max’s jaw fell “I don’t believe it...the man’s much too ...you’re sure?”

    “Max, you know that I am always sure about such important things”

    Max was aghast “So it’s true what the English say...those Yanks have got
    sex on the brain! To know what she’s up to, and still he follows his dick!”

    “Not only Americans, my friends...” Minderschnatten now waxed
    proffessertorial - he had studied much human folly in his lifetime
    “ It is a phenomenon of power- the brightest and the best of men, they
    climb to the top, they think that they are God’s gift to women, and when
    some clever slip of a thing comes to seduce them, they forget all that
    they have learned, and undo their brilliant careers along with their
    fly-buttons”

    “Well, this does put the cat among the pigeons...” Max muttered, trying
    to sort the implications of the revelation in his mind.

    His friend had already done so “Men in love being what they are...”
    he said “...Our Conway, infatuated with this Scotty whore, is likely to forget his
    mission to help keep America out of the war, in case his own ox be gored,
    and the bombs begin to fall on his sweetie...he is likely to listen to her piteous
    pleas...” not without humour, himself, Hans now adopted a falsetto voice
    “... ‘O sweet dear Cousin, please save us again, lest England; home; and your particular
    beauty fall under the German yoke ’ ” He fell silent, unaccustomed to
    such long speeches, Minderschnatten being more of a listener, than a talker.

    But his words had had their effect on Max Dorff also
    known as Dickie Barton “Oh, will she now...?” his face
    hardened “...not if I know anything about it...more than one way to
    kill a cat, you know, Hans old Boy” and he held up the hands that
    knew a dozen different ways to snuff out the life of a man - or woman
    “...and I may have to do just that!” he said softly.
    (to be continued)
    "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.

  2. #47
    Join Date
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    When the Beaver - as he, himself, liked to be
    referred to- had finished reading the clipping, he
    looked over at his visitor. “What did you think of this, young Lynn?”

    She said thoughtfully “I can’t fault his history... just
    his interpretation of it...we may have been as
    imperialistic as he says, but we’re different, now,
    at least the English are...” with a twinkle she added
    “ ...of course, we Canadians have always been
    interested in fair play!”

    He smiled as he said “Is that what you think that has
    got some of us so exercised over what Hitler is doing.
    ..that we think he’s cheating?”

    “No, sir...” she answered firmly “...because he’s a bully
    - and our common-sense tells us that a bully unchecked,
    is a bully who thinks he can take us on, sooner or later”

    “There’s a saying for that, isn’t there...?” remarked
    the magnate “ ...how does it go ‘They came for the
    Jews, and I said nothing, they came for the Catholics
    ...’ something like that?”

    “I know the one you mean, sir...I don’t remember
    the whole thing, but the upshot was, when ‘they’
    came for him, there was nobody left to speak up for
    him”

    “...And you think that Hitler will come after this country,
    eventually, if we ignore him now?”

    “Oh, I don’t think we ignoring him, sir...my take is that
    Mr Chamberlain’s playing for time...we’re in no position
    to take on Germany, right now, I just think that Neville
    is just playing along while we build up our strength
    - still, you would know more about that, sir” alluding
    to his friendship with both Winston Churchill and
    Neville Chamberlain”

    “ And why would we want to take on Germany at all?”
    persisted her interlocuter

    “We wouldn’t...at least I say we shouldn’t...” and at
    his raised eyebrows “ ...that is until this country
    gets into a position of strength, the English navy
    strong enough to blockade Germany into starvation;
    her air force sufficient to pound it to perdition,
    her army grown enough to beat Hitler’s depleted
    forces back, after they’ve spread themselves thin,
    mopping up Europe, including France, as well as
    the Germans having to guard their back against
    Russia, that’s if they could even get across past the
    English naval and air defences across the Channel...
    Hitler, licking his chops, ready to invade England,
    at last, finds that she’s as strong as he is now - a
    Mexican standoff ”

    “I see...” Beaverbrook pondered for a moment;
    he realized that this girl regarded the conversation
    as between Canadian equals discussing the fates of
    other nations, rather than that of an wannabe employee
    sucking up to her all-powerful employer, as he
    would have wished it

    “Fortress Britain, in other words; like Conway’s
    Fortress America...” he remarked “... You’re as
    simplistic and cold-blooded as he is, my girl” he
    rebuked her “...You’d have us stand by, watching
    Hitler ravage the allies that we’ve made, after solemn
    pacts that we’ve signed?”

    “With respect, sir, I’d point out that it doesn’t have
    done Adolf any harm to tear up treaties...perhaps
    England should learn from his success...” she stared
    at him “...and as for the ‘we’ that you quote, sir,
    I’d point out that I’m a Canadian, and that as far as
    I know, we haven’t signed anything with anyone”

    “You’d surely come in with us in the event of war...?”
    he queried “Along with the rest of the Emp- er -
    Commonwealth?”

    “As we did in the Great War...?” Lynn came close to
    jeering at him “... where we lost the cream of the
    crop of our young men; along with France...along
    with England?”

    “The Canadians did themselves proud at Passchendaele
    and Vimy Ridge...” the Beaver pointed out “ It was
    that war that defined Canada as a nation”

    “Sir, pardon me, but that’s the same sort of pap that
    our politicians are handing us back home...” Lynn
    scoffed; early in this debate, because of her lippiness,
    she had long given up any hope of retaining her job at Aitken’s
    paper, the ‘Express’; hey, but she could always go
    back to Daddy’s car-rental business in Vancouver,
    she wouldn’t starve.

    A pity though, she rather liked England, where it
    was all happening, and she loved being a journalist;
    still, she plunged on “...and twenty years after those
    battles, where are we now? ...England ignores us,
    America scarcely knows that we exist”

    “Oh, come now, my dear...” Aitken was settling down
    to trotting out his ideas on crusades in Europe; the
    demands and sacrifices of a great Democracy, the
    duty of a great and noble nation to protect the
    weaker ones against aggression, when he remembered
    that he was supposed to be a press lord, and this
    uppity pacifist, Lynn whatsername, just high-priced
    help.

    “All this is neither here nor there, Lynn...” he told
    her, his manner reasonable and calm, much as he
    deplored her insularity. “...Fact is, I wanted to offer
    you a promotion, if you could get over your chauvinism
    to accept it”

    She stared at him; after all her audacity, so far
    from firing her, he talked of promotion? This she
    had to hear.

    “Yes, sir...” she said meekly “...sorry if I got carried
    away”

    He waved it away “Good old Canadian spunk...I like
    that...” jolly the girl up first, then spring it on her “As
    I see it, nobody wants war, not you; Neville;
    America; even Hitler himself; as for me, I don’t, to
    the degree of appeasing that madman until we’re
    strong enough to oppose him, but believe me Lynn,
    it’s going to happen, wars being things that nations
    drift into, helplessly, like ships in a fog...look at that
    last fiasco in 14-18 ...a shot fired in Sarajevo
    result - three years later, America, on the other side
    of the world from Serbia was in it...we’re on a collision
    course right now with Germany, she’s irrepressible,
    we, when push comes to shove, are going to prove
    immovable...if it’s going to happen anyway, who
    do you want to win?”

    “The English, naturally...” the girl mumbled, then with
    a return of spirit “... but, sir, that doesn’t mean that
    Canada has to join in!”

    “Oh, she will, Honey, she will...” he winked at her knowingly
    “Take it from this old guy, who’s in a position to
    know...Mackenzie King is playing pacifist right now,
    because of Quebec, but he’ll be in on the action”

    He saw from the droop of her features that she feared
    he was right, so he continued “Okay, so war being
    inevitable, how to win it...just us and the Em - uh
    - Commonwealth, we can hold them off, and the war
    trickles down into another Versailles stopgap,
    again...but with America on our side, this time, we
    can beat them so badly, that this really will be the
    war to end them all”

    He turned to Conway’s article on his desk
    “Now this guy, he may be a good
    American naturally, wanting to keep his own country
    out of it, he writes this anti-war stuff which is bad
    news for us.”

    “Given that we’re definitely going to war sooner or
    later...” Beaverbrook went on “...we need the Yanks
    on our side, while this feller is trying to talk them out
    of it...we’ve got to counter propaganda like this...”
    indicating the news-cutting before him “That’s
    where you come in, young Lynn”

    “Me, sir?” forgetting her English Grammar 101 in the heat of
    the moment “How do I...?”

    “If you accept what I’m telling you...” he went on earnestly
    “That sure as shootin’, Britain and Canada will be at
    war, sooner or later, what’s the best thing for a
    good Canadian to do?”

    She shook her head, bewildered, as he answered his
    own question “Try to get America in on our side”

    She collected her wits “But, sir, being entirely pragmatic
    even if the good guys lose, Canada will still be there
    ...the Nazi’s will never get at us, way over the Atlantic
    as we are”

    “Don’t you be so sure of that, young lady..." he warned her, with a raised finger “
    ...Kaiser Wilhelm never reckoned to see American troops in his Rhineland, last time,
    and wars have a habit of improving on the
    one before...this upcoming brawl is gonna really be
    all-world, all-in, unbelievable stuff, that even
    H.G.Wells couldn’t dream up...so, do you accept the premise?”

    “That Canada will be in it...?” She had no doubt;
    this man was in the loop, if he said a thing was so,
    you could take it to the bank; besides, she had long
    ago formed an opinion on her own prime minister,
    Mackenzie King...that was the clincher.

    “I s’pose...” she said, at last, reluctantly “If you say
    so, sir...what do you want me to do?”

    The magnate held up the news-clipping of
    Conway’s article

    “ I want you to go over this, carefully, then write your
    own article, totally rebutting it...when you’ve done it
    bring it to me, and I’ll see that it’s published over there
    through my contacts...the Times and the Post are
    officially against America entering the war, but
    sympathetic to the English, so I expect they’ll give your article
    an airing...you do it right, that should knock some of
    the stuffing out of this fellow’s arguments.”
    Last edited by Rongar; 03-21-2015 at 02:24 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.

  3. #48
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    Fleet St, London, May 5th 1938

    Lord Beaverbrook also known as Max Aitken, proprietor of the London 'Daily Express' studied his
    list of appointments for the day.

    Lynn Carrol ? ...ah, yes, of course, that was the real
    name of ‘Suzy Canuck’ who wrote that light breezy
    ‘Canadian corner’ in his newspaper.

    He had met Lynn on the SS ‘Ryndam’ when returning
    from a trip to his homeland, Canada. Lynn, who hailed
    from Vancouver, had been the only other Canadian
    at the table which they shared with 20 other passengers,
    at mealtimes, so they had, naturally, socialized.

    There was no question of a ‘shipboard romance’
    between them...apart from the fact that he was married,
    and the almost 40-year age difference between them, she had no
    physical appeal for him, Lynn being plain; thin; and gawky,
    while she found him old in outlook, and positively ugly
    in appearance.

    However, they had a shared passion for journalism,
    though from opposite ends of the spectrum, she just
    embarking on a career thereon, he, very much
    arrived at the top of the publishing tree - his paper,
    the ‘Express’, was reputed to be the most widely-read
    in the world at that time, despite of, or, perhaps because
    of its use by his Lordship as a propaganda tool for the
    appeasement of oppressors like Hitler; Mussolini;
    and the Japanese Imperial Army.

    As behooved a rich, powerful press lord, he was able to promise
    her a job if she ever fancied working for the 'Express’
    which promise she took him up on, shortly after, he
    creating that 'Canadian corner’ for her, especially.

    Although Aitken saw his protege’ but seldom in the years intervening,
    he read her weekly column, as he devoured every
    word in his own papers (in addition to the Daily Express, he owned
    the Evening Standard and the Sunday Express), and found it good.

    he wondered why she had asked for this interview; it couldn’t
    be to approach him for a raise; her immediate supervisor,
    the Features editor was the one to handle any negotiation
    like that.

    Now here she was, promptly at the appointed hour,
    handing him a press clipping.

    “This was sent to me by that American woman, at our table
    on the ‘Ryndam’, remember her, sir? - Temple
    someone...” he nodded “...it’s written by a man
    named Conway, who, apparently, is based here, and is
    writing stuff to be published over there...she’s a
    considerable Anglophile, as you know, and she was
    disturbed by this article of his, enough, to mail it to
    me.”

    Beaverbrook glanced at the article; it was a long one.

    “Better make yourself comfortable, Honey...” indicating
    a chair “This could take a while, due to my fifty-nine
    year-old eyesight, and the fact that I don’t speak American”

    She smiled at his quip, and took a seat as he read.

    ” The Chicago Tribune

    3rd April 1938

    A letter from England

    by Dan Conway

    It is appropriate that I write this on All Fools Day,
    for it seems obvious to me, that various
    Governments are trying to fool their respective
    peoples with illusions of grandeur.

    It is a time of tyranny, and of those who would
    oppose it with idealistic theories of “democracy”.

    We have General Franco imposing his view of
    Fascism, it being the equally dictatorial answer to
    Communism in his country;

    Signor Mussolini asserting his rights to the far-off
    independent Arabic country of Ethiopia.

    Marshal Stalin oppressing his vast nation with an
    iron regime of five-year plans and year-round purges.

    Emperor Hirohito unleashing his Japanese Imperial
    Army upon China.

    And chiefest of these, we have Herr Hitler assuring
    his countrymen that they are some sort of super race
    worthy of inheriting the earth.

    It was ever thus in Europe, indeed, in the wide world
    since time began.

    Tyranny rises and falls under its own weight...where
    is the Ming Dynasty, now? The Roman Empire declined
    and fell; the Spanish Inquisition finally petered out
    whilst the Napoleonic regime was short -lived; as was the
    Cromwellian era.

    American intervention had absolutely nothing to do
    with the crumbling of these harsh regimes...the only
    tyranny that the United States ever challenged - and
    overcame- was that of England, itself!

    The present British Empire acquired over the centuries
    in blood and corruption, is on its last legs, the first
    brick in the edifice being torn out of its cornerstone
    by our own American War of Independence to
    induce the first totter of the sham that is now,
    euphemistically, described as the “Commonwealth
    of Nations”, a polite term for once-independent
    nations of Arabs; Negroes; Indians
    (of two continents); Aborigines; Celts; and even
    Latinos in the Falkland Islands, brought, eventually,
    under the English imperialistic yoke, by sword; gun;
    and sheer chutzpah, similar to that of Hitler's, today.

    So, today, we have the nation with the history of the
    most ill-gotten gains, ever, since the world began,
    itself, illegitimately, claiming an “Empire on which the
    sun never sets”, complaining, now, about what it
    perceives as the intrusions of another would-be
    empire - builder.

    So what if Adolf Hitler moves borders, and annexes
    areas? The Chancellor asserts, that he is merely
    taking back that which was always Germany’s,
    but which was wrenched from her by the unjust
    Treaty of Versailles, imposed on Germany after
    the 1914-18 war.

    Perhaps he has history on his side - in any case,
    what business is that of Great Britain, whose own
    hands are far from clean, when it comes to land-
    grabbing? ...just ask the Irish; the Scots; the
    Welsh.

    Why should Mr Chamberlain take it upon himself
    to warn of “grave consequences” should Germany
    go this far, and no further, then the British Prime
    Minister giving a little, each time Herr Hitler goes
    back upon a previous assurance?

    It is all a merry game of politics, and our own
    President seems to be playing a part. My suspicion
    is that Mr Chamberlain made giddy by Franklin D.
    Roosevelt’s own thunderings about European
    tyranny, believes that the President would come to
    his aid were the British Prime Minister foolishly go
    to war against the overwhelming might of Germany.

    Nothing could be further from the case; surely, even
    our posturing President would not ignore history, and
    thus repeat it, namely, our ill-advised entry into the
    1914-18 war, and the unfortunate repercussions
    therefrom, in our great land; the Crazy ‘Twenties;
    Prohibition; Organized Crime; our present Depression?

    If Mr Chamberlain were to ask me, I would give him
    this advice “Don’t count on Mr Roosevelt to save you
    from such folly, Sir - come the 1940 Presidential
    election, he may be unable to save himself!”
    -30-”
    (continued next post
    "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. #49
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
    16,822

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

    A Dan Conway game
    Code:
    	
    
    Embassy Marines (8-4) at Camberwell Counts (8-4)
    
    May 5, 1938
      	1 	2 	3 	4 	5 	6 	7 	8 	9 	R 	H 	E
    Marines 1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	1 	0 	1 	4 	8 	0
    Counts 0 	0 	0 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	2 	6 	0
    	
    
    Marines 	           AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    PFC T Brockman C 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.250
    PFC R Holliday 3B 	5 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	1 	0 	.313
    PFC P Smith 2B 	      5 	0 	3 	3 	0 	1 	1 	4 	.217
    PFC J Everhart LF 	3 	1 	1 	0 	0 	1 	1 	0 	.191
    CPL B Ellsworth      1B	4 	2 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.313
    Chet Ruskin SS 	      3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.284
    PFC C Lewis RF 	      3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	1 	.288
    Brian Verreault RF 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.333
    S-SGTD Bennett CF 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.262
    PFC J Lockhart P 	4 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.125
    Dan Conway***           1        0        0       0         0        0         1        333
    Totals 	                34 	8 	4 	4 	0 	4 	5 	5 	 
    
    *** Ejected from game"
    
    2B:PFC T Brockman (1)
    
    	
    Counts 	AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    Barry Louie 3B 	3 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.265
    Harold Brune LF 	4 	1 	0 	1 	0 	0 	2 	0 	.402
    Pete Hilbert CF 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.355
    Wayne Kinneir RF 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.308
    Jim Scully 1B 	3 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.318
    Lee Racine 2B 	3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.405
    Eric Lewers SS 	2 	1 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.120
    Chris Rock C 	3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.227
    Ward Perry P 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	1 	0 	.154
      Joe Howard PH 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.219
      Kevin Domagal P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
      Steve Spencer PH 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.500
      Hugh Swaffield P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    Totals 	28 	6 	2 	2 	0 	2 	4 	0 	 
    
    2B: Harold Brune (5)
    CS: Lee Racine 2
    
    
    Marines 	    IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    PFC J Lockhart 	9.0 	6 	2 	0 	2 	2 	4 	93 	2.20
    Totals 	        9.0 	6 	2 	0 	2 	2 	4 	93 	 
    	
    Counts 	          IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    Ward Perry 	7.0 	7 	3 	0 	3 	3 	5 	117 	2.68
    K Domagal 	1.0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	10 	2.79
    H Swaffield 	1.0 	0 	1 	0 	1 	1 	0 	15 	2.19
    Totals 	        9.0 	8 	4 	0 	4 	4 	5 	142 	 
    
    WP: PFC Jake Lockhart (5-0)
    LP: Ward Perry (3-2)
    	
    Temperature: 59F
    Wind: Calm
    Attendance: N/A
    Time: 2:37
    "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. #50
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    Continued

    He could not know that Lynn Carrol had planned the
    entire at bat, beforehand. Intrigued by the virulence
    of the article in the clipping from the “Herald-
    Tribune”, she had made inquiries as a true journalist
    should, and discovered that apart from his profession
    as a columnist for the Chicago newspaper, he was a
    volunteer player-coach for the Embassy Marines.

    Having already derided his article in one of her own,
    that the Beaver was currently vetting back in Fleet
    Street, she regarded him as an adversary with whom
    she would like further to joust.

    She had accordingly, and surreptitiously, arranged
    with the Camberwell Counts starting pitcher,
    Ward Perry, that he deliver those first three pitches,
    that she had pre-determined to call strikes whatever
    their location, in order to test Conway’s reaction.

    Perry, a thirty-something Welshman, always up for
    a lark, and ever eager to take the mick out of a
    Yank, especially one in charge of a set of bully-boys
    that the Embassy Marines’ players were gaining a reputation
    for, around the Metropolitan Baseball League, readily fell
    in with her plan, and delivered the pitches with the
    result, delightful to both himself, and his co-conspirator,
    the umpire.

    Lynn thought that the looks on the American’s face,
    each time she called a strike, were worth all those
    hours spent in her swotting up the rules of baseball.

    She would apologize to Conway later, after all, baseball was
    only a game, and their future adversarial writings,
    a war of mere words.

    In fact, she found herself liking the man, in person,
    and wished to know him further.

    Despite her ungainly height; boyish figure; and plain
    if regular facial features, Lynn, herself, attracted
    men intelligent enough to discern that here was a
    female possibly as bright as they, and that by cultivating
    each other, both would learn, thereby...she had a
    feeling - feminine intuition? - that, in spite of their
    set-to at home plate, Dan Conway found her
    interesting, perhaps attractive? - in his turn.

    When Dan returned to the dugout, he answered the
    the questioning looks of his team mates with a terse
    “She’s chucked me out, fellers...don’t mess with her
    this game,or the other umps, okay?...she’s got a
    hard-on for us, she’s this close to forfeiting our game,
    so don’t dispute any calls, and go beat those
    Camberwell Cunts, anyway."

    "... Say, Trav...” this to the back-up catcher, PFC Travis
    Brockman, “ ...suit up, willya?...I’m only allowed to
    coach from here on...” he thought for the sake of his
    tough-guy image, that he ought to reassure his
    troops “...Don’t worry, guys, I’ll sort it all out with
    this dame, once the game is over”

    He did, indeed, seek out Lynn, even as she sought
    him, the Marines having won, worthily, both players
    and umpires, behaving with the utmost circumspection.

    When the former two antagonists came face to face, after the game,
    they smiled at each other. “What was that all about? “ he asked her.

    She explained, informing him of the gag she had pulled at the start of the game,
    and of the rebuttal of his own article that she had written, the which was
    presently being edited by Lord Beaverbrook, himself.

    Dan Conway was much amused, and very interested. Here was a worthy opponent
    ... it promised to be a challenging fight... and, perhaps, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
    "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. #51
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    May 5th 1938

    Dan Conway didn’t really want to date Scotty Sheridan;
    sure, she was darned good-looking, and certainly
    personable, and he really liked her accent which
    one would swear came from the lips of an English
    rose, rather than a Scottish lassie, but the knowledge
    that she was trying to play him for a sucker, at the
    behest of some sort of British secret service agency
    put him right off.

    Besides which, he didn’t want to get entangled with
    any girl over here, engaged as he was to Mary Cronin
    back home, whom he planned to marry, once back
    in the States in the Fall, when the Marines’ baseball
    season, and, more importantly, the propaganda
    campaign that Colonel McCormick had set him, be
    completed.

    There was a certain satisfaction of being a squire of dames,
    particularly this one, Scotty, was certainly a knockout,
    and he, the envy of all the Marines who watched him
    escort her to the stands at the ball game, this day, there
    being a chorus of wolf-whistles, and ribald jokes, at his
    and her expense, especially, in the matter of them bedding
    down, together.

    It was one of the unusual perks of this relationship,
    that Dan was looking forward to her refusal to
    sleep with him...in fact, so close was his relationship
    with his fiancee, Mary, that he wouldn’t dream of going
    further than petting with another woman, but Scotty
    wasn’t to know that, meantime, he mischievously planned
    to put his Scottish Mata Hari between a rock and a hard
    place, at a suitable stage of development in their
    relationship, by inviting her to sleep with him.

    He did not suppose for one moment that she was under Major Hodder's
    orders, so to do, in the likely event that being an American
    male, he would be sure to want sex, eventually, nor that she would obey
    such an order. Conway, rather suspected that, like himself,
    she was spoken for, already, possibly by a fiance’, or even
    a husband, whom she, again, like himself, had no
    desire to betray, orders or no orders.

    The dilemma for Miss Sheridan, he thought with
    amusement, would come when he popped the question
    “What say we do it, Hon?”. How would she refuse him
    without risk of turning him off her, and seeking his
    jollies with a more willing partner, he being an attractive
    young man, who could have his pick of a lot of eligible
    women, since her mission from Major Hodder was to stay
    in a relationship with one, Daniel Conway?

    All this was her problem for the future, Dan decided
    once he’d installed her in her seat in the stands, and strode to the
    dugout, to don his catching gear, and talk things over with today’s
    starter for the Marines, Private Joe Lockhart, who
    had yet to lose a game in this young season.

    He was intent on receiving Joe’s warm-up pitches,
    when he heard the home-plate umpire call “Play
    ball”. He looked around in surprise - it was a woman’s
    voice.

    The Embassy Marines, confident of their baseball
    prowess, had sportingly fallen into the habit of allowing
    their opponents to nominate the home-plate umpire,
    for sure, and to man the other bases, if they could scrape
    up enough civilian bystanders so to do, otherwise,
    Marines, who usually turned up at the game in numbers
    to support their team were enlisted as arbiters at the various bases.

    These were appointments to be avoided, for in the true
    Marine spirit of loyalty to the Corps, such umpires
    were apt to give outrageous decisions in favour of
    their own men, so opposing teams. like the Camberwell
    Counts, today, took care to supply at least four supporters
    of their own, to umpire the game.

    This proved to be of dubious leveling of the
    playing -field, as the Marine ballplayers, acting
    on Coach Conway’s standing order, harassed
    the umpires at almost every adverse call,
    gradually intimidating all four into seeing plays
    the Embassy Marines’ way for most of the game.

    “Boy, they must be hard-up...” muttered Dan to Joe
    as they drifted to the dugout to change.“...can’t get
    guys to stand up to our heckling” He and Joe gleefully
    punched each other’s shoulder at the prospect of giving this
    mere broad behind the plate, a hard time; little did they know.

    Although the game, as usual, was staged in London’s
    Hyde Park, the Marines, for this particular game,
    were designated the visitors, therefore were up to
    bat first.

    Dan, himself, invariably led off, most unusually for a
    catcher, for, typical of the breed, he had a good eye,
    thereby enhancing his chances of getting on base;
    moreover, unlike most catchers, he had a good turn
    of speed around the bases; and above all, of course,
    he was the boss, and could bat where he chose to.

    Dan prepared to take the opening pitch from the
    Counts’ Ward Perry, a starter whom he knew to be
    a steady there, or thereabouts hurler around the strike zone,
    so Conway hunkered down, head over the plate,
    in order that he could spot an early fat one, and
    dispatch it to its just deserts.

    To his astonishment, Perry unleashed the first pitch
    straight at Conway’s head; it was a change-up, so
    Dan whose reflexes were cat-like, anyway, had ample
    time to flop down in the dirt to avoid a beaning.

    It had to be an accident...civilian pitchers simply knew
    better than to pick a war with the Marines by playing
    chin music. Yet Dan would have sworn that he’d seen a
    smirk on the pitcher’s face, as he let go that first
    wayward delivery.

    As Dan laid in the dirt, scowling ferociously at Perry,
    wondering if he should charge at him, so early in the game,
    he was even more amazed to hear a girlish call of “Strike”
    above him.

    Conway happened to be a connoisseur of accents
    appreciating clipped English tones; being amused by
    the incomprehensibility of the Cockney argot; the
    Scottish burr sounded nicely in his ear; the Irish lilt
    touched his heart; above all, he loved the clear
    enunciation of a Canadian woman’s voice.

    Not this time, however... this crazy Canuck female
    umpire, couldn’t tell a beanball, from a field goal!

    Scrambling to his feet, he glared at her “Strike...?"
    was his rhetorical question, as he dusted himself off
    “...how could that be a strike?...it dam’ near took my
    head off!”

    “How could you determine its location...?” she asked
    coolly “...you were down there in the dirt...and watch
    your language to the umpire...I won’t warn you, again
    - now play ball!”

    Dan gaped at her. This was a new experience for him;
    male umpires would never dare to be this sassy against
    a Marine, let alone his godlike baseball coach He decided
    not to make a big deal out of it, for now...he didn’t
    want to tarnish the image of his team...real men only
    bullied other men - they didn’t pick on women and children.

    He turned to face the pitcher, again only to find the
    ball already floating past him, into the mitt of the Counts’ catcher,
    another lovely floating change-up, smack in the
    centre of the plate...if he hadn’t been otherwise
    gawking at this unbelievable umpire, he’d have
    normally crushed it out of the park.

    “Strike...” she intoned again.

    He turned on her furiously “He pitched before I was
    ready!”

    “Your own fault...” she pointed out, serenely “...you
    didn’t ask for time, and I did call ‘play ball’...and I’m
    going to call it again, so you’d better stop arguing and
    ...play ball!” the last two words on a higher note, clearly
    meant to activate the pitcher.

    This time Dan was ready, he spun around alert for
    anything - except yet another change-up that bounced
    halfway down the pitching-alley, and scurried like a
    mouse over the plate, as Dan watched with satisfaction,
    his bat on his shoulder...no way the biitch could call this
    a strike.

    She didn’t - this time she said “Strike three - you are out!”

    He turned to her, gaping again “How thehell come?...
    he gasped “...a goddam grounder?”

    “You offered at it...I repeat... you’re out, sir!”

    “Offered...?” Dan almost screeched “ I just hitched
    the goddam bat...where’d you learn to umpire?... at
    St Dunstan’s maybe?” This was a cruel gibe, often aimed at soccer
    referees by fans in the stands at decisions which such fans disagreed
    with, St Dunstan’s being a hostel, in England, for the blind.

    “I’ve already warned you, Sir, about your language”
    the umpire said, from behind her mask, most unusual
    in the reaming out of a player, or coach “...now, you’re
    adding insult to impurities, so I must ask you to leave
    the game.”

    “You’re ejecting me?” Conway was dumbfounded.

    “That’s right...you can’t play any more in this game
    ...” she said, pointing to the dugout “You may continue
    to coach, though...” she added kindly “ Though no more
    language, and no dissing the umpires, okay? ...other
    wise, I’ll forfeit your game, and report you to the League
    Commissioner ”

    Dan thought he discerned a twinkle in the eyes behind
    the mask, and this alone, gave him pause from erupting;
    what was her game?...she was stringing him along,
    somehow, why?(continued next post
    Last edited by Rongar; 01-22-2013 at 05:33 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.

  7. #52
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    "The Berkshire Eagle" ***

    June 1st 1938

    In defence of empire - and democracy

    by Lynn Carrol

    A Mr Dan Conway in the “Chicago Tribune" has seen fit to
    disparage Britain for her acquisition of an Empire in the past,
    and her opposition to the apparent empire - building of
    Nazi Germany in the present.

    That British empire was built during an era when the
    world consisted, largely, of undeveloped land masses,
    scantily inhabited by scattered, backward, tribes,
    with oases of civilization such as Britain, itself;
    France; Holland; Portugal; and Spain.

    These countries had attained a comparatively refined
    culture, as well as achieving a tolerable quality of
    living, because the peoples of these progressive
    nations were highly motivated over -achievers
    of lofty principle, with a desire to explore; exploit;
    and enlighten.

    This pattern was repeated throughout the history of
    these vibrant nations; their sons had a genius for exploration,
    and wherever their wanderings took them, their vision
    informed them, of how it could be made better.

    How seemingly impenetrable forests could be turned
    into an infinite source of building materials, and
    household and commercial products of paper and
    cardboard.

    How apparently unscaleable mountains
    could be persuaded to yield up invaluable ores; how
    supposedly untameable raging rivers could be harnessed into
    becoming transport routes, and suppliers, eventually, of that
    modern wonder, electricity.

    above all, how the hopelessly backward, and comparatively few
    and scattered inhabitants of these vast regions, could, in time,
    patiently. and painstakingly, be brought up to the standards of
    their benign discoverers.

    England, in particular, began by first, assimilating
    to itself the neighbouring wilds of Scotland; Wales;
    and Ireland, and enlightening the primitive Celtic tribes,
    therein, so that today, those once wilderness areas, with
    their scattered and scant population, are now at one with
    a prosperous United Kingdom, where we are yet proud to
    distinguish ourselves as English; Irish; Welsh; or Scots;
    and prouder still to call ourselves Britons, citizens of our
    country, Great Britain.

    It is that pride, in the title ‘great’ that prompts us
    to live up to that name. ‘Great’ countries like ourselves-
    -such as the Western democracies already named,
    above, plus the comparatively new ‘great’ nations
    that Britain was responsible for creating, Australasia;
    Canada; India; South Africa; and, especially, the
    United States- do not not turn their backs, and
    shrivel back into the shells of their 'fortresses’
    (and we all know how readily shells are cracked
    open by greedy raptors), when smaller, weaker
    nations are being oppressed by bullies.

    All but one of the nations that I have described above,
    stand ready to join this country, should it be obliged
    to take up arms against the present aggressor, Adolf
    Hitler, if all our efforts to dissuade him by common
    sense and sweet reason from his present reckless
    path, fail.

    We would all then march, reluctantly, to war, because
    it was the right thing to do; Heaven demands it;
    honour requires it; national self-respect necessitates
    it.

    Even if a nation declines to join such a crusade for
    such altruistic reasons, it should feel itself obliged to,
    as a matter of ethics; to live up to the terms of a contract
    forged by the great nations already described...I refer to the League of Nations.

    This League was wrought, in an enlightened hour,
    by the United States of America, itself, with the noble
    intention of avoiding future carnage such as we all
    witnessed in the so-called 'Great War’. Members of
    that League, under the terms of its Covenant are
    required to band together to resolve any disputes
    between nations, by means of, initially, negotiation,
    then if this fails, sanctions against the offending
    nations, finally, by use of force, if absolutely necessary.
    That is the League’s Covenant

    So far, the League, as represented by Britain and France,
    are at the negotiating stage with Adolf Hitler - such
    negotiations are not going well...the German Chancellor
    has gone back on every assurance so far, and it is
    becoming apparent that nothing short of the threat
    of the armed might of the League, will deter him from
    his present course of annexation on one pretext or another.

    But even if a great nation declines to join an alliance
    of other great nations in their efforts to halt Adolf Hitler’s
    aggression for reasons of honour or ethics, perhaps
    it should do so for the less noble and pragmatic
    purpose of self-defence.

    For should the unthinkable happen, and the crusade
    against the oppressors fail, the righteous countries,
    themselves, falling under the hideous thrall of Nazism,
    any great nation which stood aside from the conflict,
    should then find itself alone and afraid.

    Afraid, because now, with all potential allies gone,
    it is up against a monster grown yet more powerful,
    and greedy, and confident that it can overcome
    any remaining nation, no matter its reputation and
    remoteness; a nation like, say, the United States of
    America.
    -30-

    *** The "Berkshire Eagle" is an American newspaper notable for being one of the few publications in the pre-WW2 Nineteen-Thirties, of being sympathetic to the idea of, again, allying with Britain and France against German aggression
    "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. #53
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    It was not until very late in life, that George Tarreg
    realized that his memory extended further back
    than he supposed.

    He was closing in on the age of eighty-two, whilst in
    the process of setting out his view of world and
    personal history on the internet, when he recalled
    the coronation of King George VI.

    He’d always known that it was in 1937, and he’d
    long remembered the 'coronation’ teaspoons that
    were manufactured to commemorate the occasion -
    there was at least one of these in the Tarreg household,
    thereafter, but somehow he’d never connected the
    two, and persisted to an advanced age in believing
    that his cognizance of his own existence, began upon
    the dawning of his seventh birthday in 1938.

    After this startling revelation, the by-now ancient
    historian George, began picking at the pieces of his
    memory; life in idle retirement is wonderful for
    pyscho-analysis of the self, ...one has time to
    dredge up the deepest-driven of memories,
    discovering stuff, that one didn’t even know that
    one knew!

    George must have seen a newsreel of the Coronation
    ceremony at the local cinema, where it was the
    custom of that time to exhibit the latest goings-on in
    the world; plus a cartoon; plus; a theatre-organ
    recital; plus two; usually excellent, films, for a
    ticket costing as little as tenpence- a far cry from
    the paltry single cinematic rubbishy feature served
    up for big bucks at the local screening-room
    complexes of this Twenty-First Century.

    George remembered feeling sorry for the King being loaded
    with all that regalia, and jewelery.

    First, there was that long heavy robe, which trailed
    behind him, as he walked the aisle, after having been
    crowned, which train was supported by a couple of page-boys,
    rather like the monarch being a bride at a wedding.

    Then he had his hands full, the right one carrying a
    sceptre - the symbol that he was the (strictly titular)
    boss of all the Brits, the left hand hefting a golden
    globe, surmounted by a cross, representing his spiritual
    leadership, over that same irreverent lot - surely the
    United Kingdom has the highest percentage of atheists,
    and agnostics in the world, although most of us Brits
    pay lip-service to religion.

    All this, plus a weighty -looking crown that he had to balance
    on his head, as he walked out to the golden coach;
    his entire family having somewhat to share in this
    misery, too, his wife Elizabeth, adorned with a queen-sized
    edition of the crown, also - even the young princesses,
    were sporting coronets for the occasion.
    http://images.search.yahoo.com/searc...King+George+V1

    For years afterward, little George imagined the Royal
    family going about their affairs, cluttered with
    crowns, coronets, and robes, globes and sceptres, he
    wondering however they coped when tackling their
    boiled eggs at breakfast, wielding, no doubt, their own
    coronation teaspoons, or out buying the skinned
    rabbits to make a delicious stew, at the local butcher’s
    sawdusted shop.

    George remembered that he used to fantasize about
    these latter two, Elizabeth fils, and her younger sister,
    Margaret, who was about George’s age, and the prettier
    of the two (princesses, not Margaret and George), in his estimation.

    He imagined that the elder girl bullied the younger,
    and waxed indignant on Margaret’s behalf...whence
    came this notion was not clear to George, for big
    brother Ross never bullied him; as far as he could
    recall.

    Looking back over the eventful years of that brief
    era of the British monarchy, which he, personally,
    experienced, George, not for the first time, concluded
    that everyone’s life is a soap-opera, and that, of the
    Royals, being more dramatic than most.

    The lesson that George learned from his remembrance
    of that long-ago coronation was that the would-be historian
    learns as much as his readers, as he writes it.
    Last edited by Rongar; 03-21-2015 at 03:20 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. #54
    Join Date
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    From Winston Churchill's "History of World War Two"

    Hitler was convinced that his judgement, alone was sound,
    and on June the 18th, 1938, he issued a final directive for the attack
    on Czechoslovakia, in the course of which he sought to reassure his anxious generals

    Hitler to Keitel (June 1938)

    “I will decide to take action against Czechoslovakia,
    only if I am firmly convinced, as in the case of the demilitarised zone
    and the entry into Austria, that France will not march,
    and that therefore, England will not intervene”
    "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. #55
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    A Ross Tarreg game
    Code:
    	
    
    St. Petes Locomotion (16 -12-) at Hudson Springers (16-12)
    
    June 13, 1938
      	     1 	2 	3 	4 	5 	6 	7 	8 	9 	R 	H      E
    Locomotion  0     0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	3 	1
    Springers 1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	x 	2 	8 	0
    	
    
    Locomotion 	AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    Rich Turgoose CF 	4 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	3 	0 	.294
    Jeff Sime SS 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	2 	0 	.378
    Owen Carrigan 1B 	2 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.375
    Gabe Weintraub C 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.382
    Jim Brown RF 	3 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	2 	0 	.222
    Jerry Kussman 3B 	4 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.279
    Tony Walkinshaw 2B 	2 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.325
    Jeremy Neish LF 	2 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	.350
    Sam Truman P 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.000
      Mike Young PH 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.231
      Gabe Nelson P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.000
    Totals 	26 	3 	3 	0 	0 	0 	10 	1 	 
    
    2B: Tony Walkinshaw (2)
    
    DP: Owen Carrigan, Tony Walkinshaw, Jeff Sime
    E: Owen Carrigan
    	
    Springers 	   AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    A Parko RF 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	.244
    B Schuster SS 	4 	1 	0 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.227
    M Livingston C 	3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.256
    G Mancuso* CF 	3 	2 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.500
    J Finnerty CF 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.279
    B Dahlgren 1B 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.304
    Il Goodman LF 	3 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.154
    S Martin 2B 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.237
    Ji Foxx 3B 	3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.458
    Ross Tarreg P 	2 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.286
    Totals 	      28 	8 	2 	2 	0 	2 	2 	1 	 
    
    GDP: Stu Martin
    CS: Jimmie Foxx
    
    
    Locomotion 	IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    Sam Truman 	7.0 	6 	2 	0 	1 	0 	2 	101 	2.08
    Gabe Nelson 	1.0 	2 	0 	0 	1 	1 	0 	14 	6.75
    Totals 	        8.0 	8 	2 	0 	2 	1 	2 	115 	 
    	
    Springers 	    IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    Ross Tarreg 	9.0 	3 	3 	0 	0 	0 	10 	113 	2.96
    Totals 	        9.0 	3 	3 	0 	0 	0 	10 	113 	 
    
    WP: Ross Tarreg (5-2)
    LP: Sam Truman (1-1)
    	
    Temperature: 84F
    Wind: 4 MPH (out to right)
    Attendance: 2,023
    Time: 2:11
    "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. #56
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    Continued
    He must just have arrived back in the Hudson Springers’
    camp, and was now showering after the journey across
    the hot Florida peninsula from Daytona on its Eastern coast..

    Not for Jimmy was a typical Irish song; he had a
    powerful tuneful voice, and he was very proud of his
    breath control; he had always been noted for his
    propensity to sing, especially, in the shower, and his
    team-mates, didn’t rib him too much about it,
    because most of them -always excepting the odd tin
    ear- enjoyed his singing.

    Finnerty was just about to embark on the famous
    lung-busting long-drawn out “Hee -Haw” in the song,
    a challenge he was ever eager to accept. Ross stood
    and listened, smiling, as the baritone voice dealt
    commendably with a song written for tenors.

    Finnerty sang the song all the way through as was his custom,
    and when he finished, Ross clapped softly, but with
    genuine appreciation of the performance.

    “Who dat, do dat...?” asked the singer, facetiously,
    poking a shampood coal-black mop of hair out of
    the stall.

    His strong handsome features broke into a wide smile
    as he recognized Ross “Well, I’ll be...if it isn’t my
    townie from the old country!” Jimmy used no Irish
    brogue or mannerisms...he didn’t have to - his natural
    charm was potent enough.

    Jimmy had always exhibited a liking for Ross in the brief
    spell between the youth’s arrival from England, and
    Jimmy’s own departure for Daytona; the Irishman
    came rushing out of the stall, now, wearing nothing
    but his cap of shampoo, not that he had anything
    to be modest about, he being a fine figure of a man,
    his six feet of well -proportioned muscle containing just a
    hint of flab, at around 215 lbs.

    He shook hands vigourously with Ross “How you been,
    then...?” he asked eying the pitcher up and down “...
    you look a bit wilted, Boyo...the heat gettin’ to ya?”

    Ross shrugged “A bit...I’ll get over it...I’d better...I’m supposed to start on Sunday”

    Jimmy looked sympathetic “ Yeah,...that first summer
    down here is always a pig...tell you what, why don’t
    you come with me after your shower, and I’ll
    introduce you to that lovely pool they’ve got over
    at Bayonet Point Park?”

    “Yeah, Bob Colllins was telling me about it...” Ross
    remarked as he started stripping off his uniform, whilst
    Jimmy retreated back to his stall “...I hear that you’re
    well in with the owner, Paddy Cronin:”

    “Not just me, Kiddo..." called Finnerty, above the hiss of
    his shower “...any Springer...you’ll be welcome there
    ...gated community...nice crowd...no riff-raff”

    As Tarreg stepped into the shower stall adjoining, he decided
    to do a bit of probing “Is that Paddy Cronin the future
    father-in-law of Dan Conway?” he ventured.

    There was a significant silence from the usually voluble
    Irishman “I don’t know so much about that, man...”
    he eventually spoke, in a rather subdued tone “...there’s
    many an unexpected turn of events 'twixt the cup and the lip”

    Ross’ heart sank; it did not look good for his friend
    and sponsor, Dan Conway, in the field of romance.
    He decided to find out more.

    He would accept Jimmy’s invitation, Rose being busy
    with clients, even in this sticky weather, they being
    mostly old folk, well-used to the climate, if not to driving
    an automobile.

    After their respective showers, the two men made
    their way to the Bayonet Point Park in Jimmy’s
    sporty new Plymouth Deluxe P6 two-seater ...the slugger
    must be expecting to move onward and upward to
    well-paid baseball niches, if he could take on such a
    pricey vehicle, on the never-never, Tarreg reflected.

    On the way over, Jimmy explained his sudden re-appearence
    back in Hudson “Apparently, I was just called up to
    Daytona for a look-see, while their regular centre-
    - feller was on the D.L....” the slugger grinned “ ...I
    think they liked what they saw...I don’t think I’ll be
    down here for long, kiddo...either traded or promoted,
    I don’t care which, I think that I’m the brass’s blue-
    eyed boys these days...they do love a slugger!”

    They pulled into Bayonet Point Mobile Home Park,
    which seemed several cuts above the one wherein dwelt
    Ross, it being much larger, better set out into actual
    roads and avenues, with a Community Centre at its
    hub, containing a performance hall; a library; and an
    immense swimming pool, with changing rooms.

    There weren’t many people actually in the water, although
    the sides of the pool were furnished with much patio furniture,
    in which lounged several folks acquiring a tan, or
    shooting the breeze.

    Ross recognized among the scantily -clad bodies, one or
    two Hudson Springer players, who had finished
    morning practice, and now were taking it easy while
    awaiting the game to be played at the Snake Pit, the
    stadium of the Bayonet Point Cobras baseball club,
    nearby, in the comparative cool of the evening.

    The two newcomers quickly changed into swimming trunks
    in the changing rooms of the central park complex, and emerged
    to be greeted by a petite, slim, fetching blonde in her
    early twenties, and a green bathing -suit which made
    her even easier on their masculine eyes.

    Ross only to hear Jimmy’s “Macushla!*** ...how you been!”
    and her answering Irish lilt of “Pining away, without
    you, m’Jimmy” to realize that this was Dan Conway’s
    intended, Mary Cronin, although she resembled more
    Jimmy Finnerty’s betrothed, as they embraced and
    kissed most enthusiastically.

    They certainly made a beautiful couple, Jimmy’s brilliant
    blue trunks setting off his scuptured bronzed torso,
    whilst her green costume enhanced her lily-white skin,
    and hair of flame.

    Ross sighed glumly, as he slid into the cool water of
    the pool...it looked as if his friend Dan, had some
    strong competition as he watched the pair, totally
    oblivious of him, go strolling off, arm in arm, talking
    animatedly the while, to some romantic tryst that the
    youth could only guess at.

    As he allowed the tepid water to gradually ease his
    over-heated skin, Ross debated whether to apprise
    his absent friend, of this apparent threat to his
    relationship with Mary, in the weekly letter that he
    sent to the folks back home- they being in regular
    contact with Dan, as he collected cigarettes;
    newspapers, and the “Baseball Digest” from the shop
    ...they would, naturally, pass any info on to him.

    He was aware of how seriously Dan had taken his
    commitment to the girl, Mary, during the short time he
    had known the American...as far as Ross knew,
    Conway hadn’t even looked at another woman since coming over to England.

    What would be the right thing to do?...to let Ross know
    the worst, so that he might then feel free to seek other female
    companionship?...or Ross to hold his silence, in the hope that
    Finnerty’s confidence in his own baseball future be justified,
    and that he might be dispatched to Daytona or beyond,
    out of the ken of Mary Cronin, who would have to stay,
    involved as Tarreg knew her to be, in the running
    of this mobile-home park, here in Hudson, and
    await the return of her true love, Dan, who, his mind
    unsullied by ill-tidings from the Tarreg family,
    would marry her, they living happily ever after? .

    Ross sighed, and shoved the dilemma aside, concentrating
    on his present problem...in what shape would he be
    in for his start a few days from now?

    ***"Macushla" Gaelic for “Darling"
    "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. #57
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    June 1938

    In June down in Hudson Springs, Ross Tarreg was
    troubled, first by the heat and humidity of a
    Floridian summer, then by the advent of Jimmy Finnerty,
    then, ultimately, by the relationship between Jimmy Finnerty
    and Mary Cronin.

    It was’nt too bad at the beginning of the month
    when Ross was able to get through his starting
    pitching assignments with more success than not,
    racking up a record of 4 and 2 in the ten games
    he’d played so far, keeping his E.R.A. down below
    three runs per nine innings, much to the satisfaction
    of his coach, Bill Heatherington.

    But round about the tenth of the month, he began to feel
    listless and washed out, after throwing a few to the
    practice catcher, Bob Collins. who hailed from Kansas.

    “Ah, you’ll soon get used to it, Limey... “ Bob, who, at nineteen years
    was not much older than Ross, himself, who'd gotten used to the
    usually pejorative nickname issued him by his team-mates,
    realizing that they meant it, in only the friendliest forms
    of banter, as closely -knit units of men are wont to do
    at play; work; or war.

    “...My first year, I was in Paddy Cronin’s pool all
    day...” went on the catcher “Ol’ Paddy is good
    like that...real Springers’ fan...any o’ the boys welcome
    for a dip, anytime”

    Ross’ ears pricked up “Cronin...that name sounds familiar”
    he mused aloud. Bob regarded him thoughtfully for a moment
    then his expression cleared “ Of course...!” he exclaimed
    “ ...ol’ Danny Conway’s the one sent you over, isn’t
    he?...’course you’d know the name ...Paddy’s daughter
    is Conway’s girl...she runs the Bayonet Point
    mobile Home Park for her Dad...they’re gettin’
    married when Dan comes back from his England fling,
    later on..." he winked meaningly “...just so long, as
    Jimmy Finnerty goes onward and upward, to the majors”

    Finnerty, a young Irishman, and a proven slugger,
    had been assigned to the A team Daytona Cubs, shortly
    after Ross had arrived at camp.

    Finnerty had been a burly, happy-go-lucky centre-fielder,
    popular with his team-mates for his reputation with
    the ladies, as much as for his prowess on the field of
    play.

    Few ballplayers lack for feminine attention, but Jimmy
    made a hobby of it, never meeting a woman of around his
    own age, that he didn’t like.

    Ross followed up on the catcher’s innuendo “Why...
    did Jimmy fancy her too?”

    “Fancy her...?” Collins chuckled “”Why, man, they’d have gotten
    hitched if ol’ Jim had been the marryin’ kind...he wasn’t,
    an’ Danny-boy is, so’s she’ s to be Mrs Conway afore
    Christmas...not that that ever made any no-never -mind to
    ol’ Jim...he’ll hit on any woman single; married;
    team-mate’s girl; king’s daughter, you name it “

    “Just as well that Finnerty’s outa the picture, then,
    isn’t it ...? “ grunted Ross as he pulled off his soaked
    uniform shirt “I’m off to the showers for a spell,
    Bob...gotta cool off...this rate, I’ll be a wrung -out
    dishrag by the Thirteenth...” which was the date of
    his next start.

    “ ‘Kay...” acknowledged Bob, a lowly, but conscientious
    member of the Springer pecking order “...I’ll stick around here
    awhile ...I think Ray and Red want to throw some, to me,
    too, when they come outa the locker room”

    Once in the shower-room, Ross was surprised to hear
    the sound of singing. He recognized both the tune and
    the singer, at once. The song was “Donkey Serenade”,
    and the singer was Jimmy Finnerty!
    (Continued next post)
    "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. #58
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    Young George was also confused about his family.

    He was aware of the older brother, Reggie, who had died
    of a bad heart at a tender age, and from time to time,
    his mother would sigh wistfully about “My Lilian” or
    “My Charlie-boy” or “Poor little Desmond”.

    There were photos of the first two late lamented,
    the girl actually pictured in her hospital bed, from
    whence, he gathered, she was later, inevitably transferred to
    a coffin, whilst he remembered his mother telling him
    that Desmond only had ten days of life.

    So, one of George’s first exercises in arithmetic, was the number
    of how many Tarreg children there were, living or dead,
    and a later interest in psychology, led him to wonder
    about his place in the sibling pecking order.

    His calculations about the Tarreg progeny were affected
    by the overheard boasts of his father, when among drinking
    companions about being the father of fourteen children.

    George dismissed this as the beer, talking, he had arrived
    at the sum of eight, altogether, the sad quartet of deceased
    siblings, plus the four live ones, himself; elder brother
    Ross; Joan; then little Billy.(Betty had yet to be born)

    Decades later, the research of one of his own nieces,
    who, herself, had been caught up in the Twenty-First
    Century phenomenon of ancestry-investigation, revealed
    his father, Alfred Tarreg, to have been right - George,
    indeed, had been one of fourteen children.

    The implications of this didn’t strike him until many years
    later; why so many children, in so short a time? - he
    calculated that at the most, if his mother had married
    her, then, soldier-boy Alfred, during the Great War, say,
    at the age of eighteen, she being now thirty-eight, must have
    borne that brood in something like a mere twenty years,
    enduring not only the trauma of being almost permanently
    pregnant, but also undergoing the anguish of losing
    almost two thirds of them to an early death!

    The mature George was to surmise that the fertility
    was a combination of his mother’s Catholicism, and
    his father’s ruttishness, welded to the biological
    ignorance of the working-class at the time; the mortality
    of so many of the infants, he attributed to the family’s
    early poverty, allied, to the frequency of the births.

    These later ruminations of George, the man, led him to
    marvel, anew, at the iron of his mother; from an early
    age, he had been awed by her energy; resilience; and
    native wisdom, and that was long before he realized
    what a burdensome life she had lived through the almost
    forty years before he, himself, had been aware enough
    to assess her other quality of sheer endurance through
    what must have been a physically and emotionally
    draining marriage.

    In his old age, George was to conclude that, what
    didn’t kill one, turned one into a super-mom; how
    lucky he, himself, was to have been the favoured
    child of this exceptional woman, and how bitterly
    he regretted not bothering to tax his parents
    on the family history in his youth, when he had been
    so bright, and curious about most things - except
    his own important heritage.

    What effect had the children who came immediately
    before him, had upon his own personality and character?

    He deduced, remembering the episode of Reggie’s leaden
    soldiers which he had destroyed, that there might have been
    elements of jealousy in his relationship of that slightly
    older brother, the awareness of his mother’s return
    from hospital with the boy, betokened much pre-occupation
    with Reggie's acute medical condition, possibly to the
    detriment of her attention to the younger son, George,
    much to his infantile dismay, and subconscious desire to get even
    with Reggie.

    On the other hand, George was positive that he had
    felt no antagonism toward another older brother,
    feeling only admiration for, and pride in Ross, one who had
    ever been mentor to the seven-year old, and now was
    a “startling picture” (as was his childish interpretation),
    in American baseball, whatever that was.

    In later years, George, by sheer attrition, of being
    the oldest surviving male, was to evolve, first, as the
    bully of his siblings during his boyhood and teens,
    but later, in their respective lives, graduating to be
    their support and benefactor.

    From this, George could only suppose that his owed his
    eventual maturity as a caring brother to his mother’s genes
    as family caregiver, and her physical influence in his upbringing,
    his finally learning the lesson, that family is all...beyond
    patriotism, beyond religious belief, beyond, even,
    morality.

    He, in his musings on the past, then supposed that his
    early selfishness; arrogance; and self-centredness
    had sprung from the genes of his father.

    For he also learned from that same research of his
    resourceful niece, Emma, that his father, Alfred, was
    one of nine Tarreg brothers.

    George, in his lifetime, had contact with but three
    of his uncles, as well as his paternal grandparents,
    and was impressed with the intelligence of only one
    of them - although all of them treated him with the utmost kindness -
    Ernest, who was only about sixteen years older than
    George, himself, and lived until his late eighties, which
    was of great interest to a man who quipped, during
    his later years that he expected to live to become
    the first real immortal, having had the mantle of his own mother’s
    durability, descend upon him , like a blessing, as were
    the genes of apparent longevity, from his father’s side. .

    Emma had generously provided her aged Uncle George
    with the fruits of her extensive research into the Tarreg
    genealogy, and as he pored over his forbears, he marveled
    that from so universally humble a breed of folk - none
    aspired to being more than stolid working-class men
    and women - there should spring a generation such as
    he, and his present siblings, who were about to embark
    upon a path, in the second half of the Twentieth Century,
    far more privileged and favoured by fortune
    than any ancestor.

    The timing of the births of the four surviving Tarregs
    standing them in such good stead as being too young
    to appreciate the misery of the Great Depression; also
    to escape the horrors of the Second World war,
    (whilst the eldest, George, actually enjoyed
    it, as did his militant and careless schoolfellows of that time),
    and to emerge at war's end to reap the benefits of its aftermath,
    when economies burgeoned; the working-class ruled; the rigid
    morality of religion loosened, dramatically; the birth of the ‘permissive
    society'; the opportunities that were open to those of the humblest birth;
    and the fewest means. George and his immediate kin were in for
    one roller-coaster of a ride through adult life.

    Finally, towards the end of the century, when the blue
    and white collar people had to dismount
    from the economic tiger of decades-long over-
    production, paid for by the mortgaging of their financial
    futures, George and his class of seniors born in the
    ‘Thirties, had reached safe harbour, shielded from
    poverty by successive governments’ pandering to
    retirees, who had the time and the self-interest to
    vote for the Party which those seniors deemed
    would throw the most goodies their way,
    at the expense of those who still had to work for a
    living.

    A blessed passing generation whose own legacy, George was
    later to summarize in later ruminations, was to be the first
    one in the history of the Western world, to leave that
    world in far worse shape than they had inherited it.
    "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. #59
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
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    Posts
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    Re: "SPIKES" ...on their combat boots...

    June 8th 1938

    So far from being fancy-free as his protege’ Ross
    Tarreg supposed, Dan Conway found himself up
    to his neck in problems with women.

    For one thing he found it difficult to shuck off the
    curvaceous but clinging Scotty Sheridan, whom he
    had already put to the bed test, and found wanting,
    Scotty pleading that she was a devout Catholic, the
    undercover agent coming up with the cunning
    counterploy, that she would only sleep with him as
    her husband, secure in the knowledge from the intelligence
    already gathered by Major Hodder’s team, that Dan
    was already affianced, and fully committed elsewhere.
    (Conway, himself, had not mentioned this fact to her.
    ..what man does, when he thinks he can bag another bird?)

    Scotty, with ersatz tears, had skillfully rejected his
    tentative suggestions that they break up, and had
    managed to hang on to her quarry, somehow. Dan
    was reluctant to let her know that he was on to her
    subterfuge, thus aborting Hodder’s whole purpose
    of having her close to him.

    Dan reasoned that once the major learned that he,
    Conway, was aware of Scotty’s masquerade,
    Hodder would pull some other means of surveillance
    tactic that Dan would not be aware of ...better the
    devil you know, and all that, the American decided.

    Meanwhile, he continued to wine and dine Scotty at
    the National Liberal Club, and, indeed, he enjoyed
    her company, for she was witty and humourous
    enough on the few occasions that she held forth, and
    certainly, she was a heck of a good listener, since her
    job was, after all, the gathering of intelligence.

    He also found her an effective sounding-board for him
    to bounce his journalistic ideas off, she invariably
    countering his arguments for appeasement, with well-
    informed rebuttals of her own - whether she truly
    believed in a crusading Britain was hard to tell, since
    her job was, as well, after all, to dissemble.

    But most of all, when we get right down to cases, it
    was a matter of sheer male ego...the delectable
    Sheridan was a trophy to be worn proudly on a
    man’s arm...it indicated to his fellows, that he, Conway,
    must be something of a god, himself, if he could win
    such a goddess.

    As accomplished and self-assured as Conway already
    was, a highly-paid journalist, and well-regarded baseball
    player coach, he yet basked in the admiration and envy,
    of the rich and powerful denizens of the National Liberal
    Club, when he signed Scotty in as a guest there, as he
    relished the wolf- whistles of Marines - men, who,
    in his turn he looked up to- when installing his
    prize female in the stands at Hyde Park on game day.

    He realized that Scotty, desirable as she was, would
    soon pall on him. There was no indefinable spark between
    them, none of that chemistry that he shared with his
    Mary back home. Probably the knowledge that each
    of them had that this 'romance’ was just a charade,
    anyway, had doomed their liason from the outset.

    And as if all these negative factors weren’t enough
    for him to seek an end to l’affaire Sheridan, was the
    growing distraction caused to Dan by Lynn Carrol.

    By dint of his own skilful investigative reporting,
    Dan had established that the conniving umpire of a
    month ago, was in fact a young Canadian intern
    working for the 'Daily Express’, who had added
    insult to the indignity inflicted on him during that
    memorable at bat from which she had ejected him,
    by, herself, writing a column slamming what he had
    to say about empires ; crusades, and democracies.

    He felt bound to retaliate.
    *******************************************
    "Chicago Tribune"

    July 1st 1938.

    Just how 'Great' is Britain?

    by Dan Conway.

    A Miss Lynn Carrol has taken me to task for my
    previous remarks criticizing the British empire.

    I note that Miss Carrol is , herself, a Canadian, and
    that today, in fact, is a national holiday in her native
    land...it’s called “Dominion” day, Folks...apparently
    Miss Carrol seems to enjoy being 'dominated’, by a
    country that has no business being on that turf,
    anyway - as the Canadians, themselves often joke
    “We should give it back to the Indians”

    There’s many a truth spoken in jest; right now, those
    Indians, the original owners of the land, once free to
    roam about their vast continent hunting ; fishing;
    and generally minding their own business, are now cooped up in
    miserable, impoverished reservations’ depending on
    handouts from a nation that stole their birthright, and
    now regards them as somewhat third -class nuisances,
    that nation having since broken all the treaties that
    it made with those same Indians they made way back,
    in order to persuade the restless natives to quit resisting
    the Brits’ invasion. Sounds rather like a certain Adolf
    Hitler, doesn’t it?

    Miss Carrol and I differ in our definition of a 'great’
    nation...for me, it means a country that minds its own
    business, looking after its own people, yet welcoming
    any from other lands fleeing injustice; persecution;
    oppression; poverty; and all the ills that have long
    beset Europe, that accident-prone continent.

    It does not send troops to resolve others’ quarrels,
    yet is ever ready, to advise, and mediate in their
    squabbles; a great nation has no class system, and no
    useless monarchy, to which its hapless subjects
    must bend the knee, and dip into their pockets and
    purses to feed the habit of pompous privilege to which
    these arrogant ‘Royals’ have become accustomed
    over the years (The present English sovereign, George
    the Sixth, for example, is estimated to be one of the
    richest men in the world).

    A great nation does not create an artificial tourist
    industry out of the bloody history of tyranny;
    treachery; murder; debauchery, and stark raving
    madness of that monarchy, to compensate for its
    monsoons of summer, and Siberian winters; instead
    it offers rolling Prairie vistas; the wonders of National Parks;
    the rolling surf of the Californian beaches; the quiet
    marine beauty of the North-East and West ports,
    respectively; the sunshine of the deep South.

    A great nation does not tolerate a class system which
    denies equality of opportunity to all; instead, on its
    fields of amateur sporting endeavour, one can find
    teams comprised of millionaires; ex-convicts; soldiers;
    waiters; salesmen; and clergymen with no one able to
    spot the difference between them, knowing that each man
    had the same opportunity to become the other.

    With a great nation, anything is possible for every
    man; can this be said of Britain?...I think not.

    And if the mother-nation itself be not worthy of the
    name, how can her empire be?

    One more thing - great nations - like the United
    States, say - don’t acquire empires, in the first place.

    Miss Carrol also complains that the United States having
    helped form the League of Nations, declined to join it.

    That’s rather like saying that a doctor who prescribes
    a treatment for a group undergoing a host of ills-
    ranging from avarice through nationalism to zealotry -
    - ought to undergo that treatment, himself, although,
    he’s totally free of what ails that benighted group.
    -30-
    Last edited by Rongar; 03-25-2015 at 01:50 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.

  15. #60
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Victoria B.C. Canada
    Posts
    16,822

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

    A Dan Conway game
    Code:
    City of London Crossfire (8-13) at Embassy Marines (15-5)
    
    June 8, 1938
      	1 	2 	3 	4 	5 	6 	7 	8 	9 	R 	H 	E
    Crossfire 0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	6 	2
    Marines 1 	0 	2 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	x 	5 	11 	0
    	
    
    Crossfire 	AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    Pete Hodson CF 	3 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.269
    Matt Berner 2B 	4 	2 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.322
    Peter Goodlett RF 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.246
    Lawrence Galway LF 	3 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.226
    Joey Tyler C 	3 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.250
    David Delaney 3B 	3 	2 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.313
    Rob White 1B 	2 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.273
    Shawn Nisbett SS 	4 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.343
    Jon Robey P 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.143
      Don Stoffel P 	2 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.222
      Bobby Burrowes P 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.500
      Joe Hunt PH 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.275
    Totals 	30 	6 	4 	1 	0 	0 	5 	0 	 
    
    2B: Matt Berner 2 (9)
    GDP: Lawrence Galway
    
    DP: Matt Berner, Rob White, Shawn Nisbett
    E: Pete Hodson, Lawrence Galway
    	
    Marines       AB 	H 	BB 	R 	HR 	RBI 	K 	SB 	AVG
    Dan Conway C 	3 	2 	0 	1 	0 	1 	0 	1 	.290
    PFC R Holliday 3B 	4 	2 	1 	0 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.346
    PFC C Lewis 2B 	2 	0 	2 	1 	0 	1 	0 	0 	.267
    PFC J Everhart LF 	4 	1 	0 	1 	1 	2 	1 	0 	.323
    LT A Krajewski 1B 	3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.320
    Chet Ruskin SS 	4 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.309
    PFC K Ingalls RF 	4 	2 	0 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	.350
    B Verreault CF 	3 	1 	1 	1 	0 	0 	0 	1 	.287
    PFC B Williamson P 	3 	1 	0 	0 	0 	0 	1 	0 	.200
    Totals        	30 	11 	4 	5 	1 	5 	2 	2 	 
    
    2B: LT Avery Krajewski (6)
    HR: PFC Joey Everhart (9)
    HBP: LT Avery Krajewski
    GDP: Chet Ruskin
    CS: PFC Ryan Holliday
    
    DP: PFC Chris Lewis, LT Avery Krajewski, PFC Brian Williamson
    
    Crossfire 	IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    Jon Robey 	3.2 	7 	3 	1 	5 	5 	0 	79 	5.56
    Don Stoffel 	3.0 	2 	1 	0 	0 	0 	2 	40 	4.25
    B Burrowes 	1.1 	2 	0 	0 	0 	0 	0 	18 	2.54
    Totals 	8.0 	11 	4 	1 	5 	5 	2 	137 	 
    	
    Marines      	IP 	H 	BB 	HR 	R 	ER 	K 	PIT 	ERA
    PFC B Williamson9.0 	6 	4 	0 	1 	1 	5 	122 	3.20
    Totals 	        9.0 	6 	4 	0 	1 	1 	5 	122 	 
    
    WP: PFC Brian Williamson (3-1)
    LP: Jon Robey (2-4)
    	
    Temperature:68F
    Wind: 3 MPH (in from right)
    Attendance: N/A
    Time: 2:27
    "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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