This Tuesday even tide down at the Tower Grove ball yards, that mighty squad, the Squids, gave their adversaries a lambasting heretofore unheard of in the annals of soft base-ball. Yes sir, the little shavers were lined up at the center field fence just to get a peek through the knothole at those mighty gladiators, the Squidball Nine. Their opponents this evening were a team of riff raff, gypsys, and ne’er-do-wells cobbled together from clubs too afraid of the rain to put forth a proper team. On the mound for the Squids as usual was ace knuckleballer, COOLHAND, who polished off her tenth-consecutive shutout, a record in the Black Thorn Saloon League. She sent many a hobo back to the flophouse with his tail between his legs eliciting hoots and hollers from the assembled masses. Who could forget the mighty socks of the old horsehide by journeyman DONRUSS and first-bagger CHUNSLIN or the mustachioed SWITCHBLADE’s gallop through the slop to retire one of the few opposing vagrants able to launch a ball past the infield? Short-stop KRUKKER made a mighty leap into the heavens to pull down the rock into his mitt on a hot clothesline to his right. In the fourth inning, one of the opposing brutes ineptly chucked a sizzler to home plate, beaning MMM-MMM in the rump as she sailed past, scoring run number 23,245. The ensuing rhubarb ended with this good-for-nothing layabout being promptly sent Kansas City-way on a rail. How about those proxy Squids, JOHN, stellar on defense, and TRUCKEY, a whiz with the lumber. Lastly, after the final tally showed the Squids victorious at 230,167 — 0, and the vanquished made their way to their squalid lean-tos, the victors made their way to the saloon for celebratory sasparilla and spirits, and the clan bid a fond farewell to backstop JANTERNET, on her way to rest and repose in the hinterlands of the Oregon Territory.

-KRUKKER, #29

[When cleared the dust and ballyhoo, more apparent than ever t'were indeed that the honourable KRUKKER was to receive the spoils of said corken-ball representative of the match as a whole and the according glory of journalistic representation afforded all those gone hitherto and hereafter. Good on you, chap! --MAESTRO OF THE JOHNNYCAKES, #88]