The Rapallo Pound caught the London Eliots to win the Scarriet American League pennant, as Tom Eliot’s ‘miglior fabbro’ bested his club down the stretch.

Meanwhile the Philadelphia Poe held off a furious run by the Brooklyn Ashberrys and the Boston Lowells (James Russell) to win the NL pennant.

Philadelphia and Rapallo meet in the first-ever Scarriet World Series, and the war of words has already started.  Edgar Poe has already hinted he feels no love for Ezra Pound.  “Poetry should be beautiful,” Poe said outside the ballbark yesterday, “and we plan to show that ruffian, Mr. Pound, how beautiful it can be.”  And with a wink, the Philadelphia manager in Philly’s black uniform, was gone.

Pound looked bemused when he was told of Poe’s words.  “Beautiful?” he chuckled, “Poe will have to be more than pretty to beat this team.”

Rapallo was a .500 team in May, when Pound decided he needed a new pitching staff.   Out:   Hugh Kenner (4-5), Charles Olson (3-5), Harriet Monroe (3-5), and Louis Zukovsky (2-4).  In:  Marquis de Sade, H.G. Wells, Madame Blavatsky, and Wassily Kandinsky.   Pound also inserted Aleister Crowley into centerfield, replacing Pound’s pal Wyndham Lewis.  The wholesale dumping of Pound’s friends was ruthless and brutal.  It took everyone by surprise.  Pound is all about connections and connections to the eccentric and the influential.

But did Pound know what he was doing?

Apparently he did.

The team with a .500 record in May ended up winnng 100 games.  Sade and Blavatsky each won 17 games; Wells added 13 and Kandinsky 12.  Olga Rudge, the pitcher Pound stuck with, finished with a 19-5 record.   Pound also brought in Richard Wagner (6-0) to anchor the bullpen.

Ford Madox Ford, James Joyce, and James Laughlin provided the offense.  Mussollini, Fenollosa, Yeats, and Doolittle made great plays in the field all season long.

The Philadelphia Poe did it with pitching as well: Alexander Pope (19-11), Lord Bacon (18-5), Alexander von Humboldt (17-11), Sam T. Coleridge (16-11),  and Percy Shelley (14-13).

Poe’s offense was carried by Dostoevsky, Baudelaire, and Byron, and Virginia Poe patrolled centerfield like a champion, with Fanny Osgood next to her in left.  Poe’s appeal almost brought in players like Mozart, Kepler, Einstein, and Socrates, but some stars just refused to don uniforms this season.  Maybe next year.   Pound tried to sign Thomas Jefferson, but the president didn’t feel it was quite right to play on the same team as Mussolini. 

Pound?  He’ll put anyone on his team, and do anything to win.  Pound found team chemistry—even if it’s creepy chemistry.



rapallo pound                       100-54   –
london eliots                          97-57    3
new england frost                  91-63    9
amherst emily                       78-76   22
hartford stevens                    75-79   25
cambridge cummings            72-82   28
new york moore                    69-85   31
iowa city grahams                  67-87   33
brooklyn whitmans                 61-93   39
new jersey williams                61-93   39


philadelphia poe                   92-62    –
brooklyn ashberys                 89-65   3
boston lowells                       85-69   7
cambridge longfellows           83-71   9
new york bryants                   82-72  10
concord emersons                 79-75  13
maine millays                        75-79  17
tennessee ransom                 70-84   22
hartford whittiers                  66-88   26
new jersey ginsbergs            49-105  43



  1. Noochness said,

    October 12, 2010 at 11:34 am

    I await the results with bated breath.
    Who was’t ‘quated Scarriet baseball with death?

  2. thomasbrady said,

    October 12, 2010 at 5:29 pm

    Woodman, he did.
    He did not kid.
    Sport? Shallow.
    Life? Deep–
    Except when, lo!
    Losers weep.

  3. Noochinator said,

    October 12, 2010 at 10:56 pm

    Casey’s Random Batting Trial

    by Keith Woolner

    The win probability was epsilon for the Mudville nine that day
    With a minus-two run differential, and just three outs left to play

    Then when Cooney lowered his OBP, and Barrows did the same
    They took the last-ups advantage and the home crowd from the game.

    The Dodger fans began to leave, the Expos fan did too
    Just Red Sox fans did cling to hope which springs forever new

    They thought, if only one at-bat, Casey he could get
    Egad! Pete Rose could take those odds, and make a hefty bet.

    But Flynn and Blake preceded him. Who made this lineup card?
    For both were mere slap hitters, for whom patience was too hard.

    So upon the stricken statheads, grim melancholy sat;
    Just an infinitesimal probability of getting Casey to the bat

    But Flynn singled off the closer, to the wonderment of all
    Blake caused the fielder’s UZR to drop, when he let the line drive fall.

    And when the fielders finally stopped giving the ball a chase
    Blake had doubled, while Flynn had failed to take the extra base.

    Then from fifty thousand estimated arose a lusty yell
    It rumbled through the concrete valley, and I think it crashed my Dell.

    It pounded through the TV speakers, enhanced and amplified by FOX.
    For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the box.

    There was ease in Casey’s manner, and a smile was on his face.
    Did his endless bat-touch ritual and then stepped into his place

    When responding to the cheers, he flipped off the roaring crowd
    No one doubted it was Casey, high-and-mighty and so proud.

    All eyes were on Casey as the pitcher got the sign
    All throats groaned and sighed when he stepped out one more time.

    The manager debated the I-B-B, and then said with a sneer
    “I’ve pitched to Barry Bonds before; I’ll pitch to this jerk here.”

    At last he hurled the spheroid, sent a-whizzing toward the plate.
    The FOX gun it read 95, but ’twas really 88.

    Far too close the batsman stood, so the pitch came towards his head.
    Casey dove, fell to the ground. “Strike one!”, the umpire said.

    From the stands, black with people, there went up a muffled roar.
    “Is Enrico Pallazzo umping?” they yelled, plus a few “choice” words more.

    “Kill the ump!” Don Zimmer shouted, and from the dugout he bound
    And it’s likely he would have killed, had not Casey thrown him to the ground.

    Casey knew the state transition matrix, and should have showed concern.
    But knew from the hurler’s pitch count, his right arm was likely burned.

    He stepped back in the box, and once more the dun sphere flew.
    But this ump calls the high strike, and Casey took it for strike two.

    “Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, when they saw the Jumbotron.
    The screen operator was ejected, and only then the game went on.

    Pitcher and batter faced off as foes, and each refused to bend
    Yet only one would increase his VORP when this day comes to an end.

    “Walk-off homer” Casey thought, avoid the extra innings he did hate.
    He pounds, with steroid muscles, his mighty bat upon the plate.

    From the stretch to a full stop, so deliberate it’s absurd.
    Pitch in the dirt! The swing is checked! Catcher appeals to third…

    Oh somewhere in this land, the Red Sox are champions of the day.
    Steinbrenner’s firing someone, and Rickey still wants to play.
    Gaylord Perry and Joe Niekro are finally playing fair.

    But there is no joy in Mudville
    Casey cost them three Win Shares.

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