Putnam patriot. [volume] (Putnam, Conn.) 1872-1962, 1916-01-21
NEVER MORE
Old Historic Base Ball Ground Takes
The Count
Right, Center and Left Gardens. also the
Diamond, viii GROW Vegetables

The old historic Morse base ball
ground has been sold. 1t has been
given its unconditional release. All
this ought to go under the caption
"Base Ball. but as the heading has
been thrown in aud we will have no
use for IL until il is time 10 get out and
dust the electric fans and inspect last
summers underwear we will not
bring IL back to life just to kill il again
Anyhow our subject deserves more
prominence. How would YOU like it
II you had been an old faithful base
ball ground for nearly half century,
jollied along until you really thought
you were good base ball ground, and
then when they put you on the shelf
TO have your local paper not even give
you proper obituary? No, of course
you wouldn't like 1t. We are about to
start an obituary, or euiogy, or at
least sorrow story about our old
friend nc ross the river. We've called
TO our devil to call the ambulance, also
notified the hospital not to put us TO
sleep In feather bed, as feathers do
not mix well with tar, fearing the pop.
ulace might get behind cur editorial or
repetorial "wen and "usn mask, and
we are taking no chnnces. Here's the
point where we square our shoulders
and advance with courage we don't
somehow feel, all for the love OF our
old friend, where we have spent many
n seven joyous days, and we plunge
into the eulovy that flows from the
keys
We begin by repeating: They have
sold our base ball ground, yours and
mine. Alas and alack! and few
more aliases and couple more alaeks,
whatever they may stand for. Some
how we've got hunch that they
stnnd for sorrow, woe, mourning and
blue Fridays-and Saturdays. Now
we mix them together in a cocktail of
despair which we swallow to toast TO
the departed with the lights dimmed
and The music working under the soil
pedal. If 1t Is TO be our last potion
donit mourn, for what Is life TO us now.
There is bale OF black crepe attached
To the shadow Of the base ball season
of 1916 that is awaiting shipment 10
Putnam, and the charter of the local
Order of Amalgamated Fnndom will
be draped in black until further notice.
The old grounds have several times
been Knocked OIL their pins and gone
groggy but last year they came back
strong pushing aside several young,
unseasoned aspirants for honors. Now
the solar plexus wallop has landed
squarely, the gong has rung and the
old veteran can not arise from the mat
there will be no more comeb acks.
And that's the why OF all this quasi
funeral stuff. In years to come we
will point out to our children and our
children's children the. sacred spot.
But again alas and again alackl BY
the shades OF Scaiy McGann, Larry
Mclean, the Quinebaugs, the &. q. g.,
the g. A. c., the Teddy Bears, and
few more gone -but-not-forgotten base
ball clubs and players, and we add
the pep and ginger OF the migratory
Manager Teddy--the old grounds have
not only been retired but we under
stand are to be Inundated. 1t Is said
that soon the spud, the hollow eyed
bean, the ruddy beat, the weepy onion
and the curly bead of that odiferous
part of New England toiled dinner
which appraiscs the neighborhood OF
what is grazing the family board, Will
cover the ground over which the grace
full fly was won't to soar, after IL had
been swatted, and the hot ones scorch-
ed the turf rs it passes beneath the
arch of some over anxious fielder's legs.
Down the base lines the emeraid.hued
cukes will roll about on their pimply
backs, the diamond will groan under
the weight OF future pumpkin pies
and In the outfield the peas will rattle
about In their spring jackets as the
gentle breezes from the river watt the
corn silk about ears that hear not, for
the swish OF the willow and the ash,
and the cheers will be no more. All
this sob dope because the grounds are
under a life sentence as vegetable
garden.
Yes, brother fans and sister Harnesses,
them facts Is true. No more shall we
gather near the river. No more shall
we hear the splash of the ball In the
Quinebaug. No more will the jingle
of silver be heard in the woodshed
near the entrance gate. No more Will
the echoes ring and isend back their
faint and distant "Yat aBoy Charlie.
No more will the great national pas
time cause tempus To fugit. No more
will we sizzle in the summer sun and
roast the ump. No more will heroes
rise and heroes fail. No more Will We
treat our girl to peanuts and ginger
pop, mol on this historic butte field
No, Never More.
To round out a proper eulogy the
muses. have TO be drawn upon. I
local rhynier always comes TO the front
at such time and out Of respect 70 the
departed rough house Is ayerted and
he gets away alive with IL. With this
little apology 1t Is our cue TO rush on
headlooU info the following. not car