The Wild Horse of Osage, not P-Mart
There are some who say the English language has lost its way; that the recent regression of high school English essays into internet chatter (IMHO, Hamlt iz compltly re a prince whos rly suicidal) is the final straw in communication breakdown. There are others who say it’s a new adaptive form of the language. I could give a fig. All I want back is the lyricism of old baseball nicknames.
If the enduring thing about the once-national pastime is its fables that aren’t-quite-true-but-true-enough, the quality of sports monikers is a necessary ingredient to its vibrancy. Oh, for the days when the Splendid Splinter – alliterative and evocative in both talent and appearance – roamed the grass in front of the Green Monster. When the Say Hey Kid turned his back to home plate and ran to the deepest part of the Polo Grounds. Or when the Meal Ticket struck out the Sultan of Swat, the Iron Horse, Double X, and Bucketfoot Al in the 1934 All-Star Game. Through these sobriquets of talent, majesty, endurance, and a strange batting stance, the stories grandfathers would later tell their grandsons were enhanced with a Homeric touch. (more…)
