At last, head fieldmaster “Gentleman” Mike Nolan has named me, J.T. of the family O’Sullivan, the starting quartered-back of the San Francisco Footballing Fourtyniners. No doubt that he was swayed by the best slugging arm this side of the Northwest Territory.
Top of the world, ma!
Blithely and skillfully did I upend the inimical roustabout Alex Smith from his prized station. Having weathered a few haymakers, some more pepperpots and the old calaboose did the lumbering giant go down, rendering him a pile of bustable materials. Back to the train yards with you, good sir.
Now quartered-backing is the bailiwick of J.T. O’Sullivan. I am proven suitable at commanding a squad of able-bodied marauders. Together we will sock our opponents in the area of their visage until such point that their verticality is compromised.
My boisterous nature got the better of me, as it is wont to do. The scourge of vainglory is known to inflict men of great stature ever and anon, and inflict it has this great O’Sullivan. These bouts are often cured by beating myself about the face. In fact, let me quell this on the spot.
And… wait, whoa there!
You, halfbacking fellow, why do you appear beset by panic? What news this day?
The opposing teams have been permitted to wear masks of metal over their facial areas? How then are the haymakers to connect? This bedeviling product of flimflammery has thrown the proverbial pandawrench into the gears of the great footballing machine! This age of industry is not the great boon that the newspapers say.
No matter. Haymakers will be thrown. The scion of industry will be bested, along with the foes of the Fourtyniners. No obstacle will stop us from traversing long units of measurement en route to pummeling their offspring and womenfolk.
Ah, there is the vainglory again. We must remedy this at once!
And one aaand –