The tenured reader — glistening from freshly completed coitus and trying to remember where he placed his fashion eyewear once passions overtook him — will recall this writer’s enthusiasm for one W.J. Slattery, crafter of prose and invader of boudoirs.
It so happens that, in the process of utilizing the best and most emergent features of the HotBot search engine, I stumbled upon one W.J. O’Connor, who shares not only leading initials with Mr. Slattery but also a dedication to the muscular prose of better days. Mr. O’Connor had this to say of a certain game in 1917, when men were men and women were, at best, “handsome” and “well preserved.” Writeth Mr. O’Connor:
“He [Johnson] first fielded it with his chest, and knocked it silly at his feet. He then laid a prehensile paw on the pill and came up with ample time to assist [George] Sisler with the out. But he suddenly lost his prehensileness, and tossed the ball over his shoulder like a superstitious person throwing salt to avoid a fight.”
Yes indeed, Mr. O’Connor. Yes indeed …
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