Our Team

Lilacs bloom listlessly in the dooryards, and the fluid play of baseball is again at hand. Shrill raucous crics of encouragement and derision shatter the cool air above Fenway Park, unruly urchins hurl dirty oranges and even dirtier epithets at their adversaries. Only the umpire's stolid face, inflexible as Procrustes' bed, retains its wintry imperturbaility.

Gentle, well-mannered, the sweet strings of our Orphean lute add melody to the clamour. The Crimson is a local paper, and it will support its team. The mighty Red Sox have tasted the bitter almonds of defeat more than once, but they are ours and we cannot graciously renounce them. Simple loyalty is a more powerful force than all the serpents, who hiss the tunes of realistic appraisal. The Red Sox will endure. The noble Williams, who so justly detested his public, and whose grand saliva made rainbows inspiring to behold, is no longer with them, but they will endure.

From our unreserved support we hope there will be drawn a very sharp and salutary lesson for the so-called sportswriters of today, whose craven columns pale at the first signals of depair. When the lilacs send their lovely odors into the spring air, let these timid miscreants, like us, give their succour here at home, where it is most needed. Indeed, it is truly said, local loyalties are the finest flowers of civilization.