Author Archive for M. Toole
Ouray’s Smoky Joe Wood
Once the best pitcher on the planet
29,000 fans crammed Fenway Park on September 6, 1912 to witness the matchup between the Washington Senators’ Walter “Big Train” Johnson and Boston Red Sox’s Smoky Joe Wood. The two fireballers, who admired each other greatly. Johnson and Wood carried with them impressive credentials, each having set records, winning 16 straight games during that season.
Smoky Joe warming up. His blazing “hummer” caused Giants fan and baseball historian Grantland Rice to write: “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are, Wood pitched again.”
The newspapers loved it. Johnson had remarked, according to The Glory of Their Times by Lawrence Ritter: “Can I throw harder than Joe Wood? Listen, my friend, there’s no man alive that throws harder than Smoky Joe Wood.” Years later in a taped interview Wood said of Johnson: “He was always starting from behind with that ball club. Walter Johnson was the best pitcher that ever lived.”
That was Boston’s year due in part to Wood’s 34 wins and a .383 batting average by the great Tris Speaker. They finished the campaign with 105 wins and 47 losses. By the time of the historic meeting the Red Sox had already run away with the pennant.
Back to the game: Both hurlers dominated until, in the third, George McBride hit a lead-off double going to third on an infield out. Wood then walked two batters to load the bases but struck out the next two men to end the threat. In the sixth Speaker doubled down the third-base line and later scored on an error to give the Sox a 1-0 lead. The Senators put men on base in all three of the remaining innings but failed to score. By then Wood’s hummer was blinding. He gave up six hits and struck out nine in the victory. Boston went on to clinch on September 18.
The World Series pitted the Sox against Christy Mathewson and the New York Giants. In the first outing Wood struck out Art Fletcher and Doc Crandall, with the winning run on base, to end the game. In game 4 Wood, facing Jeff Tesreau for the second time, beating him 3-1 while striking out eight. The game ended with a Giant’s victory at the Polo Grounds. The score stood 3 games to 2 favor of the Sox.
Smoky Joe Wood with Christy Mathewson during the World Series of 1912.
On October 15 Joe faced more than the Giants. Due to weather and disruption on the part of Boston fans he finished his warm- ups only to wait 45 minutes before the start of the game. He got clobbered 11-4. The next day Mathewson started the seventh game for the Giants with Wood in the dugout. By the seventh it was tied. By the eighth Smoky Joe was once again on the mound. This time he held the Giants to a run while Boston scored the go ahead runs in the tenth to win the Series. That was his third World Series win that year.
He finished the 1912 season a phenomenal 34-5 after posting 23 wins the season before. He started 1913 on the right track posting an 11-5 record. It was then that he suffered a series of injuries that would ultimately end his pitching career. He went on to a 9-3 record in 1914 and was 15-5 in 1915. Excellent stats for most but not for Wood. Due to arm and shoulder injuries he sat out 1916 saying “I never threw a day after that when I wasn’t in pain.”
In 1918 he got a second wind. A standout in right field for the Cleveland Indians, he batted .298 through 1922. His career batting average was .283 and he was 116-57 with a lifetime ERA of 2.03 holding 51 Red Sox records. Only nine home runs were hit off him during his entire career.
With accomplishments like these Wood would certainly be inducted into the Hall-of-Fame, but to this day he is not. Insiders point to the brevity of his career although Hall-of-Famer Dizzy Dean played one less season. Others say it’s because he was never fully cleared of charges related to an alleged run-fixing scandal during an gray era when betting was widespread. An oversight on the part of Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis left Joe’s name out of the mess when he exonerated Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker, who had been “implicated in the impropriety.”
Wood went on to coach baseball at Yale and was named to the all-time Red Sox pitching staff along with Babe Ruth, Cy Young and Lefty Grove. He passed away in 1985 at age 95.
The criteria for admission to Baseball’s Hall-of-Fame says: Candidates shall be chosen on the basis of playing ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character, their contribution to the team on which they played and to baseball in general. Wood scores high in all of these considerations and is deserving of honor at Cooperstown.
Said Tris Speaker in 1958: “Joe, there is no question that you belong in the Hall-of-Fame. Unfortunately you hurt your arm at the height of your career. Your all around ability and the fact that you made yourself into a good big league outfielder should count.”
Further information on the life of Smoky Joe Wood are available at the Ouray Historical Museum. Thanks to Joe’s son Bob Wood, and grandson Rob Wood for information on Ouray’s greatest athlete.
– Kevin Haley
The Beer Bandit of Granada
The Hotel Alhambra occupies almost a block in the middle of the Granada, across from Parque Central. The terrace potential here is very high, even if the service is the slowest in all of Nicaragua. After a day roaming dusty streets, followed by a swim with the friendly sharks along the Las Isletas del Mar Dulce (Lake Nicaragua), a cold Victoria beer sounds like heaven.
The hotel terrace offers shade, well-worn comfort, cheap drinks, great local cuisine and an engaging (May I practice my bad English on you?) staff. It is the ultimate perch from which to observe the nightly neotropical parade in this fascinating city bent on forgetting decades of economic and civil strife, compounded by the policies of Big Brother up north.
The brightly painted restaurant walls of yellow and blue are accentuated by hordes of ancient vines, orchids, and vivid hanging flower baskets. The high ceilings, abstract art in chipped paint, create a subtle vertigo while the ceramic acoustics of the tiled palace chime the melodious Guardabarranco and Carlos Mejia Godoy.
The entire patio is one step up from the street and is encompassed by an imposing rail to keep the great unwashed from bothering the paying customers. Expanding the radius are struggling palm trees, the nearby lake, horse and carriage operatives, the aroma of frying fish, loud music, walled stucco houses, skinny dogs, pleasant people and crowded passageways wrapped around 16th Century cathedrals.
Delirious traffic in dilapidated chariots circles around and around the park acting out some mad petroleum mating ritual, horns keeping time with an torrid, almost indistinguishable beat.
Across the avenue enterprising venders sell anything from hash pipes to baby alligators. They have long ceased daily commerce and have headed home for the night. I have been warned to avoid the park after these hawkers have gone. Already a seedy element has emerged, preparing to propagate business after dark, intent on another crap shoot of drug sales, petty theft, outright robbery, muggings and drunkenness.
Poverty and tourism have never melded to anyone’s satisfaction.
But I’m on the proverbial sunny side of the street or so it seems with the combo-neon and florescent patio lights turned up to fine print levels. A world away from the park, I enjoy another Victoria with a snifter of 12-year-old Flor de Cana rum, arguably the the finest añejo rum in the Free World (which of course does not include bad ol’ Cuba).
The British couple sitting to my left is much impressed with the pungent black bean and garlic soup (another treat from b.o. Cuba) while three local merchants smoke trophy Nicaraguan puros (cigars), offering me one which I accept with a short referendum on my provenance. At the far end of the terrace banister are thee laughing tourists from Managua, who have accumulated at least 15 bottles under their table, a most effective method for calculating beer purchases on this lovely patio.
That’s when I spot him. He stands out from the others. This guy looks the rough, crude menace but somehow less threatening from afar. Damn he’s big for a Nicaraguan. He meticulously picks through the treasures in the park’s austere trash bins, discarding pieces then angrily kicking over the can. Underprivileged garbage, dissipated fruits of the poor displayed in skeletal wire and grungy bins. I saw him sitting on a bench at the plaza talking to himself earlier. On second examination he appears almost harmless compared to some of the other toughs that circulated here. Just another shabby street man eyeballing the hotel porch. I look away yawning, stretching, looking for another beer.
He crosses the street but fades into the evening shadows only to surface at the far end of the block. Passing slowly by the terrace after several reconnaissance missions he suddenly swoops down like a parched falcon grabbing a glass of beer off the British table and drinking it in a gulp, setting the glass carefully down afterwards. He is smiling now. He sets his sights on another beer, from the merchants table this time, grans it by the neck and slams it down as well, again gently replacing the bottle on their table. He then runs off almost giddy between the alley no-tels, the abandoned language institute and the designated pickpocket staging zone.
I laugh to myself not wanting to appear entertained by the intrusions. The merchants do not appear particularly perplexed peering over at me with that only in Granada look, sans surprise. They shake their heads. The Brits are at first amused, then irritated, then amused again. Their eyes wander the terrace searching for some logical explanation, finding none. Is this thirsty intruder part of their all-inclusive experience?
Moments later I catch his movements back along the rail. This time he grabs a bottle of Victoria off the Managua tourists’ table, stands at attention and drains it. The tipsy table is not quite sure who drank what. They call the waiter who comes running with one of his fellows and they throw the beer thief to the ground with the fury of Volcan Mombacho. Nothing personal…but he is fouling up the sacred serve and volley of gratuity. He escapes and returns to the badlands of the park and looks at us yelling something akin to: “Beer belongs to the people!”
I have to admit I am enjoying his antics more and more with every cold Victorian that goes down my throat. The waiters apologize to the victims and replace their beers. They even brought me a free beer after I expressed outrage and threatened to write a bad review on the place in The San Juan Horseshoe newspaper en los Estados Unidos.
No one seems all that ruffled.
This suds guerrilla is the real deal. This stalwart boozehound, this dry debunker, this macquerau guzleir may be more than what meets the eye. He’s a force. His clownish persistence cries out to be recognized. The man is an overlooked talent. The cat burglar of cold beer. He will not be denied!
He doesn’t try to steal beer from me. I am clearly his size and perhaps I could be trouble. Perhaps there are easier marks. Considering my sense of swim fashion and attention to hygiene that particular evening the man probably figured I stole what I have and was fully intent on drinking it. I have actually had street people come up to me in the Andes and offer me their coats on a cold night. Kindred spirits.
I finish another beer and move to the relative safety of a table next to the kitchen door where I can chronicle the action while avoiding future larceny. The bullish boob won’t get my beer. Not on your Nellie!
“He won’t be back,” a waiter announces brushing his hands of the incident. “He won’t dare pull that stunt again.”
Yes he will.
I watch as the conversation returns and beers continue to disappear down appropriate throats. The table I vacated is now occupied by three Nortes with backpacks. They order Victorias and quesillos (braided Mozzarella cheese served in a warm tortillas swimming in onions and cream) and sit back innocently while noisy hookers come out for a stroll. Hunched behind them is our beer thief himself, who is now spouting on about the glories of Sandino right there in ultra-conservative downtown Granada, trampling on nostalgia, and interrupting the colonial ambience of it all. I order another beer, ignoring his gaze but watchful, digging in for the rest of the performance.
The curtain reopens with the same sly grin, the slithered walk, the thirsty demeanor. He promenades by the terrace once more, this dirty and demented hops high jacker. He grabs a beer off the Norte table and drains it with the refined movements of a jaguar. The backpackers are stunned and in the momentary chaos he takes anarchistic license to drink another, without spilling so much as a drop. Then its the same delicate trademark return of the bottles to the table where they had been.
“Down with capitalism!” he cries as the cook and several bouncers grab him and roughly toss him into the street oblivious to freebooter traffic, jagged cobblestones and road apples. One of the burly men then punches him lightly, exhorting a muffled threat. He is gone.
Stunned, the Brits and one of the local businessmen join me at my redoubt by the kitchen. We are all now completely regaled by the heists. The tourists from Managua call it a night and the backpackers sit clutching their beers. I quietly indulge in my good fortune. I have yet to fall to these pranks. I feel cocky and worldly, bullet-proof and quite sophisticated. We order food, paella, avocado salad and fried plantains. The talk turns to the country’s turbulent past and hopeful future.
The British couple applaud me for my attentive vigil in the face of dangerous beer snatchers. The merchant does too inviting me to her shop the next day.
A traveler such as you who pays attention has nothing to worry about when visiting Nicaragua,” she smiled.
“When I am in unfamiliar terrain I try to remain alert,” I smiled back, showcasing my lunchroom Spanish and my alleged survival instincts.
“You have to appreciate the man’s persistence. There is a man who knows what he wants and how to get it,” I jive.
The conversation stopped upon further commotion in the kitchen. Moments later our beer man was hurled through the swinging doors to the floor chased by the owner and the bouncers. They were sweating and did not appear amused. He had apparently been hiding in the freezer gnawing on a side of beef and breaking eggs against the side of its icy walls. Despite his near strangling and his bouncing off the concrete floor he was still moving.
He looked up at me pathetically. I didn’t know what to do or think. Here’s this poor thirsty creature about to get his ass kicked who couldn’t give a damn either way. Sad. A tragic world…Just another day in the life…
Then with one desperate grasp he laughs and grabs my beer from the table and, despite his disadvantaged horizontal posture sucks it dry.
“My beer!” I cried, as our ardent guest of dishonor was then most indignantly escorted out the front to punitive festivities unknown to a relieved clientele. Laughter subsides and smiles emerge as our dinner arrives.
– Kevin Haley
THE GELDED AGE IS UPON US
Is there anyone out there who believes Donald Trump? Sadly yes, the New York mafia film-flam man is still adored by blind, educationally and geographically challenged Americans who resent anyone of any color who doesn’t wave the flag and swallow the kool aid whole. But even some of these mislead victims are quietly wandering away from the MAGA fold.
“L’état, c’est moi”
Yet Soul cannibal oligarchs, like Steven “Gestapo” Miller and JD “Hillbilly Payday” Vance that seek to exert their power over the helpless and supine just like in the gilded era of F. Scott Fitzgerald, minus the irony with any visible pinch of conscience .
“(He is) Untethered to the facts” – That’s how Judge Karin Immergut (a Trump appointee) put it sharply in the Portland invasion case. The GOP emboldens fascism under the cover of religion and jingo-patriotism when all these leaders really want to is more and more wealth. . If our public schools were better than day care centers a loser like Trump couldn’t have been elected dog catcher. Many supporters are just about to be screwed by the man they worship. Sorry, but I can’t wait.
Hitler called anti-fascists terrorists too.
Did you know that roughly 99% of the allied troops deployed and fighting in Europe in 1939-1945 were Antifa, (or anti-fascist). They were on Hitler’s list of international terrorists. The Nazis were then lost in the rubble and the German civilians paid the price. Here’s Wishing Americans would fight as hard as the Ukrainians have to preserve their republic.
All for show
Breaking news: Trump wins Piece Prize for his retreats with Jeffrey Epstein (his imagined mandate). Many Americans are calling Portland, Oregon the “Epstein Distraction City.” Donald’s war zones are Trumped Up – Chicago/Portland/Memphis. Democrats, lame as they are, did not create the urban disasters around us—they inherited them. The displaced navigate to the cities in search of survival all over the workld. Just another porly performed show. Shining away with no contnt on reality TV. Pulling people of color off the street…Trump has now identified Sativa as a domestic terrorism cell. The emperor has no clothes but wears a red tie.
Meanwhile construction begins on West Lawn liar’s bench
Despite the fact that the very White House failed to secure a building permit to excavate for survival bunker, construction marches on. Insiders confirm that a Bavarian-design remodel is underway right under the humble and acquiescent bench. Does Trump’s plan include the burning a Reichstag of some sort? He could blme it on the “Hamas lovers who hate America”. It worked for Adolf but only for a dozen years . Considering the incompetence displayed by the Il Douche goons, it would not be surprising if they burned down one of the Trump hotels by mistake. Considering that Trump’s mass is almost double that of Herr Hitler he might not be able to fit in the bunker anyway. And oh, Don, good work commuting the sentence of George Santos – One liar to another heh?
Our readers write
A woman from Rifle says Trump is a Russian mole intent on destroying the US.
A man in Albuquerque writes that MAGA had Trump’s former carrousing buddy, Jefferey Epstein, murdered in prison so he could’t talk .
A Pennsylvania source insists that the attempted assassination of Trump was staged and that even the blood was catsup. The alleged bullet meant for him came from th opposite direction of the conveniently deceased shooter. The American killed in the incident was real and damn well expendable in the big picture.
A Utah forensic expert thinks Israel killed Utah evangelist, Charlie Kirk, who had been critical of Netanyahu’s systematic genocide in Gaza. She contends that the GOP then blamed the left and, with some success, tried to create a martyr to their cause. Prove me wrong.
And in the most shocking correspondence, a former nun says many Trump aficionados secretly think he is Jesus while a simultaneous anti-Christ status gives him unearned credibility.
Trump only prays to himself. He is as spiritual as bag of lawn fertilizer. Would a final Mega Rapture rid the world of this dangerous clown show? If so let’s roll.
IN CLOSING:
It’s all for show and polarization of the country for gold. Frightend Republicans mouth the drama then do nothing but promote fear and hatred as their boy meshes Divine Right with the Insurrection Act. What sort of twisted morality supports this? One riding the coat tails of an evil propsperity that he hopes to embrace?
The Trump Administration follows the professional wrestling model like margerine in a hot pan. Quick meltdowns. Crude. All fake! Rumors flourish that new fund me contest has emerged where contributors/participants could win two rounds in the ring with Trump at the WWF finals in 2026
CHEW ON THIS Would Ya?
Trump fires pollsters after 70% disapproval rate shakes the foundations with weasel Republicans and frightened Democrats soiling their polyesters. Meanwhile Il Douche continues his “What me worry? stature. “I’m staying on as your President as soon as we formulate an air-tight plan to kill the 2026 mid-term and 2028 Prez elections. It will be terrific.
Oh, and Elon Musk’s dad, Errol Musk – “just one of the boys” was recently accused of sexually abused his own children and fellow pedophile, Price Andrew of England has now surrendered his Duke of York title. It is obvious a fat man from Queens, who colors his hair and cheats at golf, is on borrowed time.
-Kashmir Horseshoe
HUNTERS SHOOT HORSE
A Dream Shot of Some Consequence
a true story with Uncle Pahgre
(Delta) It all seemed to make sense, at first. A friend of ours, who shall remain very nameless, was awakened from his early winter hibernation by a loud pounding on his back door. He threw on a robe and stumbled in the direction of the interruption. When he opened the door he saw two men in blaze orange, heads hung down, shuffling their feet, serious about gaining his immediate attention.
“We done shot your horse, mister,” said the first, “and we come to make reparations.
The second man held out a wad of cash that turned out to be one hundred dollars in the company of four more bills of like currency.
“Well, come in,” yawned my friend. “I guess that was the shot we heard earlier. This time of the year one gets used to guns going off all around. What the hell time is it anyway?”
“Bout eleven,” whispered the first looking around the kitchen in the direction of assorted snores from the hallway.
“You people hit the hay early round these parts, heh?” winked the second man who turned out to be from just outside Dallas.
“We’re up here from Texas hunting and despite what you may have heard we’re responsible, respectable and accountable.”
“Then what’s all this about a horse?” asked my friend.
“Well, you remember the part about responsibility?” offered the first hunter. “That only goes so far, I guess. We’ve been prowling these hills for two weeks and ain’t seen nothing of an elk, unless you count the scat. We were frustrated. We were tired and hungry and headed back to a motel down the road when, just as dusk pulled up her skivvies, we saw movement in the hay field just north of here.”
The first hunter went on.
Jim here decided that it might be our last chance at glory so he took a chance. He sighted in and pulled the trigger. Blam! Then blam again. What a shot! Dropped that elk like a ton of greasy enchiladas on a Saturday night! Cow elk too, you know. No horns. And we each had a million-dollar tag right here in our pocket. Some shootin, Jim.”
The second man just smiled, still embarrassed but yet a little bit proud of his expertise with a rifle.
“We climbed your fence and snuck out to the kill which was dead as an armadillo after arm wrestling a semi on Highway 287. Then the problem emerged. It wasn’t a bull elk. No. It wasn’t a buck or doe, but neither was it a cow elk. It was your horse, mister.”
My friend just stared at the kitchen table.
“The old swayback. She was getting to be an old lady, too slow to ride much less dodge a bullet. Where is she now?”
The two men laid the five hundred dollars on the table and told him the mare was still laying in the spot where she dropped. He sighed.
“How am I going to get around reporting this to the authorities?” he asked.
“We hoped the five hundred would help you make that decision. It ain’t a bribe but it’s a far sight more than that old girl was worth alive. We realize that local cops would put our buts in a sling over this episode but I think you can see that out hearts, if not our brains, are in the right place.”
My friend yawned. He though to himself of a new tractor he needed. He thought of Christmas and his kids. He thought of the good it would do to turn these poor hayseeds into the pencil-pushing cops.
“You boys want a cup of coffee? I gotta think this out. Tell me again, what made you shoot what you thought was game on private property at dusk. Don’t you ever read the back of your hunting license. Cripe, at the cost of the thing I’d think you’d memorize every word just in case you lost it.”
The hunters went through their thinking process one more time dwelling on their fatigue and frustration. They apologized again saying that they wouldn’t blame my friend if he turned them in and pressed charges for trespassing and the whole cheroot.
“OK, but if I ever see you on my land again you’ll be the horsemeat,” he said “Now can you find your way back to your motel or should I drive you?”
They both laughed the laugh of men much relieved. They thanked him again and departed. He watched them as he pulled on his coveralls.
“I hope that backhoe starts. I didn’t plug her in and the weather’s turned cold.”
He stuffed the bills into his desk drawer, told his wife he had to check the cows and wandered into the night. He’d bury the mare before the rest of the family got savvy to what had occurred. He drove through the dark expecting a messy ordeal, then he saw the mound of flesh hugging the ground and approached.
“What the hell?” he barked standing over the kill. “It’s an elk. Those morons shot a cow elk and from the looks of things it was a perfect lung shot. I’ll be dipped!”
Thinking that the meat was still good he proceeded to dress out the elk there on the spot. The cold weather had kept it from going bad right away and the lung shot had insured that the meat wasn’t spoiled by adrenaline and trauma.
“Hell of a shot,” he smiled. “Hell of a shot.”
At dawn he woke up his oldest son who helped him cut up the elk and package it for the freezer. It would feed a lot of people a lot of nights this winter.
“Does this mean we won’t be going hunting, dad?” asked the son on the way to school later that morning.
“What makes you ask a question like that, son,” smiled our friend. “In fact I think we oughta stop by and look at that rifle down at the hardware store. It’s been fired a bit but they might let it go cheap if we flash them some cash, heh?”
“Whatever you day, dad.”
(Editor’s note: The San Juan Horseshoe in no way endorses withholding evidence from the law however until we can safely determine who the responsible parties might be we can tolerate temporary storage of such data. In closing this paper likewise does not ignore good karma, frontier justice, divine intervention or just dumb luck. In short: We suggest that one never look a gift horse (or elk) in the mouth, a part of the anatomy that should remain shut on a host of occasions.)
Arkansas Senator Denies the Existence of Oklahoma
Senator Tom Cotton of Arkansas denies existence of Oklahoma and he’s not sure about Texas. Calling human-driven climate change as a hoax was the primary denial but now he has expanded his personal enlightenment. Due to GOP victory the honorable senator to chair Committee on Environment and Public Works. A solid Trump supporter, Cotton Tom insists the US has the right to attack Venezuelan drug boats – even if all they have on board is aspirin. Blow them and their commie tuna boats back to Cuba he reportedly said without the help of his GPS.
Heaven and Hell Close to Prisoner Exchange
(Purgatory) Eternal powers, Paradise and Hades, have released a preliminary announcement detailing a likely prisoner exchange slated for November. The swap, taking most celestial watchdogs by surprise, is the first arrangement of this type in 1200 years.
On the heels of an announcement, heavenly players insist that some souls were mistakenly sent to hell and should not spend eternity there. Sources in hell, reluctant to release anyone enrolled in day labor or engaged in plea bargains, were mute on any specific developments saying only “something is in the wind”.
What heaven will do with a cult of once-indicted sinners and what hell might project as the future of former empyreal beings is not clear according to persons familiar with these events. Already “transfer souls” are bivouacked near the welcome stations of both afterlife precincts. Traditionalists call the reputed move cult-driven and question how the souls could be traded since they are invisible and often not responsive to earthly prodding.
“Deporting souls once accepted at the Pearly Gates will not go over well,” said one theologian. “Just when you thought you had it knocked they tell you you’re going downstairs. Frankly I am surprised that there has not been much resistance in heaven considering the desperate state of affairs. Maybe they don’t believe it will culminate in a realignment at all.”
The last night in hell should be a knock down, drag out celebration for the damned who are headed for an eternity of peace and joy. The effected souls will have little time to readjust to the realities of both eternal destinations say proponents of the exchange. Hell has it’s high points and Heaven is no picnic. No, angels on both sides of the barricades will not be part of the controversial swap.
“Talk about being stuck in Limbo…I guess it’s either puffy clouds or pitchforks?”, said one consecrated source.
-Fred Zeppelin
