À la récherche d'Ellsbury perdu

From the diary of M. Jacoby E______.

For a long time, I went to bed early. But it didn't help. This morning I awoke with a new pain in my heel, along with the continuing agony of my side, et mon hanche. Worst of all, though, is the pain in my soul.

Today the trainers from the team came by, to insist that I visit their absurd whirlpool bath. They wish to train me, all right, as a man trains a seal.

I turned them away, and closed the shutters of my hotel room. I was afraid that the sunbeams would dry up my essence. Also, I have had the entire room lined with cork, lest I bump up against the hard floor and walls.

But there is nothing to relieve this malaise.

Today, again, I smelled them cooking up the lobster bisque. I could not help but think of chunks of the delicious crustacean, dipped in small bowls of butter.

What memories that smell brings back! Of my days in Boston, when I could still run like the wind, and had the power and endurance of many men!

How fondly I remember my walks around the Fenway! Sometimes I would take the Van Ness way, and sometimes the Landsdowne way, under le monster vert.

Best of all was how, sometimes, when the season was over, a few of us—moi, M. le Pedroia, M. le Manny, M. le Poppy Grand—would rent a house together, up in the little fishing village of Pigeon Cove, on the North Shore. There we would paint outside in the good weather, and spend hours writing odes to our favorite baseball annies, les jeune filles en fleurs.

I shall never forget the delicate way le Poppy Grand would hold his pen, the beautiful tributes to feminine beauty that would pour out of it!

Today, while reading about the Premier League championships in les Temps du New-York, I noticed a small item about the Yankees. The team has not started well.

Le Swann Noir is striking down one player after another. M. R___ T____ et M. Mc_____ have already been injured, throwing themselves against outfield walls like men hurling themselves against Fate. Poor fools! They can no more escape their destiny than any other men.

Is it time for me to return? The pain in my heel feels slightly better. Perhaps I could tolerate a week or two in the city.

Zut alors! Now my hand cramps up like Giancarlo at the plate! Best not to return north until the warm weather has returned, je pense.  For now, I return to bed, to dream of those chunks of lobster, and happier days en Boston.