Four scores and seven seasons ago our first basemen brought forth, upon this league, a new sentiment, conceived in libations, and dedicated to the proposition that "all men should kick the fuck away"
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether this league, or any league so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure the scorn of management. We are met on a great battle field of that kickball diamond. We have come to dedicate a portion of it, as a final resting place for those who played before, so that the league might live. This we may, in all propriety do. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow, this ground—The brave men, living and capitaling, who struggled here, have hallowed it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; while it can never forget the names of the great teams before us. It was for this we fight and for this we dream. To stand tall in the shadow of storied names, of teams current and old. We wish to mock the sobriety of our fellow league men, and to, with impunity, secure that all that follow in the line-up will pull up their big boy pants and kick away. The powers that be may attempt to tarnish these fields, these hallowed grounds, this diamond of dreams but we will know whether in name or spirit only we will be drunk and kicking away, for us, for the fallen soldiers left on the flip cup table, and for the sad souls lost to out of town jobs.