Every time I see Devers, or Story, or Big Papi, or Manny hit the ball out of the park, I am reminded that Ted Williams reckoned it was the most difficult skill in sports. (Even Bob Dylan knew it was beyond him. “I wish I could hit a 100mph fastball” he said, “but you have to stick to what you know”.)

I never saw Williams play. I never read his book The Science of Hitting. In fact, I had never heard of him until I read a piece in the New Yorker by John Updike, entitled Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu, and I only read that because it was by John Updike, whose laconic prose style and risqué story-telling was a phase I was going through back in the '60s.

Typically, Updike's essay on the final appearance of Ted Williams, the Kid, was more about his relationship with his current mistress, who had cancelled a tryst that afternoon and Updike had sought solace at Fenway Park, where he was privileged to see Williams sign off with a home run, hit into the Sox bullpen in right centre field.

It was the last of 521 homers that he hit for the Red Sox in a career which, interrupted by World War 11 and the  Korean War, spanned 21 years, of which nearly five were on military service. A new book, by Bill Nowlin, celebrates not all of them but those which were 'winning' HRs. By the criteria applied by Nowlin, there were 110 of them. His final hit, in his final game, was a deep drive to right field on a pitch by Jack Fisher. There were only 10,000 fans in the park, but they gave him a two minute ovation.

Williams being Williams, with a famously ambivalent relationship with what became the Red Sox Nation, he did not emerge from the dugout to tip his cap. As Updike said, “Gods do not answer letters.”

Bill Nowlin is no John Updike. But he has written half a dozen or so books about The Kid and more about the Sox. He was also the co-founder of Rounder Records, specialists in country and bluegrass music and released the first Alison Kraus album as well as re-releases of recordings by the Carter Family, Jelly Roll Morton, Lead Belly and Woody Guthrie.

His thoroughness is awesome. His prose style less so, but that's because he is dealing in facts. Facts - and stats - are what American sports writing are about, unless you are John Updike or Bernard Malamud or Philip Roth or (my favourite) Don DeLillo. And this book* - The Kid Blasts a Winner - is a winner, not least because, by definition, it concerns itself with all Ted's game-winning (or to be accurate, game-deciding) home runs.

Which, by definition, means the Sox won every game he writes about.

For me, that makes it a great read. From beginning to end.

I was lucky. From the moment this Englishman’s obsession with the Sox began,  I only had to wait just a few years for my first World Series championship. Ted Williams played in only one series, in 1946 when, injured, he was ineffectual. But his couple of decades in a Red Sox uniform were a time that I wish I had been part of.

Bill Nowlin was right there, to the extent that he once put a mitt on a Ted home run to the centre field bleachers.

What's more, I wish I had divided my time between Fenway and the recording studio in which Alison Krauss was singing. Bill Nowlin did.

So, maybe, I wish I was Bill Nowlin. But you have to stick to what you know.

* I am grateful to Summer Game Books for my pre-publication opportunity to read this book. I loved it.

Today from the everysmith vaults:​ In the early years of this century, Phil Lesh put together a quintet which took improvisation to new levels. This morning, I am attempting (again) to get to the heart of this extraordinary stuff.

I am writing this on ‘short rest’. A wild card game against the Yankees followed by a fantastic and ultimately successful series against the Rays have conspired to deprive me of sleep and contribute major stress to my extended waking hours. But the Sox are now champions of the ALE and there are two sleeps available before the first of the ALCS against either the White Sox or the Astros. There is a sense in this solitary part of the Red Sox Nation that the Sox are on a roll.

Being a Sox fan in Europe means long nights. Games mostly start after midnight, and even the game 3 afternoon start at Fenway (9pm BST) went to extra innings and continued into the early hours. But during the day and early evening, normal life continues and has its own highlights.

One such took place last Friday, the anniversary of my father’s death. After 18 months or so, the International String Quartet series returned to Leamington, featuring the Sacconi Quartet. I had missed their previous performance at the Pump Rooms, a decade ago, so was keen to be right upfront for their return. In a heavily and professionally Covid-proofed auditorium, I managed to reserve Seat B1.

In fact, the attraction was not solely the Sacconi, nor even the return of live chamber music to my neck of the woods; it was the programme.

The Sacconi were to play (after the obligatory Haydn warm-up) the eighth of Shostakovich’s quartets and to devote the second half of the concert to the String Quartet In C# minor, Opus 131 by Beethoven.

The latter has been one of my favourite pieces of music. I have a dozen or more versions of it at home and one of them will doubtless figure in my list of Desert Island Discs. The Sacconi did it more than justice: they are are a powerful, muscular band and they brought out the grandeur of the fugue, the joy (in the Allegro) and passion throughout, whilst addressing the delicacy and profundity of the Adagio. It is a heavy responsibility to play this masterwork. The Sacconi took it on and triumphed.

But by then, we knew they would. We had already heard the Shostakovich 8th, his 1960 response to a visit to a bombed-out Dresden.

I mentioned that it was the anniversary of my father’s death because he was a bomber pilot in the RAF during the war. And a distinguished one, with a DFC and AFC to prove the point.

I do not know whether he was involved in those controversial raids in mid-February 1945, during which the city was systematically destroyed and more than 30,000 civilians are believed to have died. (Some estimates place it over 200,000.) At this stage of the war, the only ‘civilians’ would have been the elderly and sick, women and children.

It has been described as a war crime, principally by those of my political persuasion. But it is significant that Churchill, in his massive 6 volume history of the war, makes no mention of the Dresden destruction.

As I say, I have no idea if my father was one of those involved. He never spoke of it, but then he never spoke of any of his wartime experiences.

But I know enough of him to know that he would have listened to the Shostakovich quartet and, as did Shostakovich himself when it was played to him by the Borodin, “buried his head in his hands and wept”.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Away from performances and mlb.tv, I am listening to English music. Warlock, Delius, Elgar and - currently - Vaughan Williams. It's A Sea Symphony​ playing right now. 

Yesterday was August 30th. It was devoted to celebrations of the birthday of Ted Williams and John Peel. A long lunch, England overcoming Pakistan in the T20 slugfest, followed by the Sox beating the World Series Champions at a deserted Fenway by way of Raphael’s 4 for 4 and a debut home run from young Bobby Dalbec, the first since Daniel Nava’s Grand Slam a decade ago. A good day.
 
But t’was not ever thus. In fact, this shortened season has been no fun at all. No Mookie, no Sale, no Price and now no Mitch. More than half way through the season, we sit bottom of the AL East, with a 12-22 record. We are 11.5 games back
 
How does this member of the Red Sox Nation find consolation at such a time?
 
With a wonderful new(ish) book from Gabriel Schechter entitled Spanking the Yankees: 366 Days of Bronx Bummers.
 
In the UK, we call this a ‘bog book’. I’m not sure whether there is an American equivalent of this expression but you can probably guess that it is a book for opening at random and dipping into on the lavatory.
 
It is a detailed record of cock-ups and disasters which have beset the Evil Empire month by month and day by day.
 
For those who have suffered over the centuries from the smug superiority of the Yankee franchise, and this includes not only obnoxious Boston fans like myself but also the millions out there who have no allegiance to the Sox, this makes for great reading. It has extended my morning ablutions schedule significantly because there is so much material out there, and now it’s all in here.
 
It’s page after page of gaffes on and off the field. Defeat from the jaws of victory. Bad trades (remember DLsbury?) and poor plays. From Opening Day to the off-season.
 
I’ve been starting each morning with these healthy doses of schadenfreude, smiling and chuckling at each entry. And then the book comes with me to the office where the indexes allow me to revisit specific events, particular players and on-this-day embarrassments.
 
I commend this to anyone who loves baseball and hates the Yankees. Even Yankees fans can benefit, because it proves what many of us have known all along.
 
Yankees really do suck.
 
I am pathetically grateful to Fawn Neun of Summer Game Books for sending me a review copy. Thanks Fawn.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: My eldest daughter recently sent me a playlist of the stuff she listens to in her evenings on the veranda in Cary, North Carolina. Amongst the dross (sorry Vix!)was a track from a duo called Mandolin Orange. Serendipitously, a day or so later, a Deadhead friend also emailed me a few links to the same band. And now I have half a dozen albums and several live shows. Check out Wildfire and their cover of Boots of Spanish Leather and then listen to … well, pretty much everything.

In the summer of 2018, during the third test between Australia and South Africa, the TV cameras at Capetown showed Cameron Bancroft applying sandpaper to the ball. This attempt to make the ball swing unnaturally was and remains one of the most egregious examples of cheating in a game which prides itself on its ‘gentlemanly’ behaviour.
 
Rightly, it took down not solely Bancroft, but also the Australian captain, Steve Smith, and the vice-captain, David Warner. All three were suspended, sent home, and banned from the game. The coach, Darren Lehmann, also resigned from his post.
 
Throughout the world of cricket, the shock and anger was palpable. And it was no consolation for English fans that the culprits were Australian. It was an assault on the game itself and we were all affected.
 
We now know that, at the same time, the other great summer game, baseball, was also under threat.
 
The Astros were stealing signs, using a video camera in centre field. They did so during their World Series-winning 2017 and again in 2018.
 
And the man who was ‘an active participant in the scheme’ was the Astro’ bench coach.
 
Alex Cora.
 
Alex, who won his successive World Series ring with us in 2018, is no longer in charge at the Red Sox, who acted quickly and definitively when the MLB report was published.
 
The Sox did not wait for the verdict of the parallel investigation into the steal-signing allegations in during the annus mirabilis of 2018.
 
They fired him. I guess even Alex realised that there was no future for him. Not at Fenway. Probably not in baseball.
 
Why? Why did he do it?
 
Because the pressure for success from owners and fans is so overwhelming? Because the need to win is more important than the game itself? Because the distinction between success and failure is so small that the tiniest advantage is worth the risk?
 
Barry Bonds was the greatest player of his generation before he embarked on his steroids. Lance Armstrong would have been a Tour de France winner without blood transfusions. Steve Smith is one of the greatest players cricket has seen.
 
The Red Sox would probably have won the World Series without steal-signing. So would the Astros the year before.
 
The outrage we feel is moral outrage. The individuals  involved have been named and shamed, the Series championships won by the Astros and the Sox will be accompanied by an asterisk.
 
But the loss is the game itself. And on its behalf, I am not just disappointed. I am angry.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Chris Forsyth from The Colony in Woodstock at the turn of the year. A great performance and a great, warm recording. 
 

​A week in politics is a long time. A year in baseball can be an eternity. 84 wins and 19 games back of the Evil Empire might be ok in Baltimore, but in Boston it’s pretty much a catastrophe. This time last year, the Sox were about to cruise to our fourth World Series championship in 15 years. This year, everyone’s gone home. And I fear that the off-season will be as disappointing as the regular season.
 
The word is that John Henry started planning (or at least considering) the departure of Dombrowski even as the duck boats were parading through central Boston. Maybe he knew that Dombrowski was intending to do nothing at all during the winter. Just as he had done last winter.
 
Sure, Eovaldi and Pearce got new thank-you contracts before they went on the DL. And you can’t blame DD for the dreadful seasons from aces Sale and Price. But you can blame him for going into the season without a closer (Kimbrel) or a set-up man (Kelly).
 
You can blame him for not reading the runes when we went 3-9 for the first 12 games.
 
And you can blame him for Cashner, the one move he did make at the trade deadline.
 
You had one job …
 
Equally, he can take no credit for the season’s highlight, the break-outs of Rafael Devers and Xander Bogaerts, the latter being my vote for MVP. I predicted that from 3000 miles away.
 
But it won’t be Dombrowski putting together the squad that will bear our hopes in 2019. And it won’t be Theo, either.
 
There are noises coming out of Fenway which suggest that the entire role may be restructured, which implies that we may have someone out of left field. I don’t know.
 
I do know that it must be someone capable of working closely with Alex Cora.
 
I like Cora. I like his cockiness. I like that the players like him. I didn’t like his approach to the 2019 season, especially the regime (or lack of regime) in spring training. And did he really play Benintendi at lead-off? Jeez.
 
It’s going to be a long, hard winter and I’m scared. Scared of losing Mookie and JD. Scared of the implications of ownership’s instruction to stay under the luxury tax threshold. Scared of another season like this last, when we could never really engage with our team, when only Rafi and Xander excited us.
 
But come March 26, in Toronto, all this will change and I’ll be predicting the play-offs with a chance at the series.
 
Why? Because that’s what I always do. Go Sox!
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: 38 years ago yesterday, I schlepped to The Rainbow in North London to see the Dead play a great show. I’m listening now to an SBD (thanks to So Many Roads) and it’s a laid-back West Coast kind of show, with the band on top form. Just as I remember it.
 
P.S. I have been remiss in attending to these posts recently. I apologise. ‘Events, dear boy. Events.’

​We reached .500 last night for the first time since the second game of the season, in Seattle. And it is the Mariners who arrive in Boston as the season, to all intents and purposes, starts again, with most of the ducks in a row, to play a three game series of which two are day games and thus sit happily in the early evening for those of us in Europe.
 
The British back pages this morning are full of the news of Tottenham’s extraordinary comeback from a 3-0 deficit in Amsterdam. And why not? After all, it hasn’t been done for, hell, at least 24 hours. I am delighted that Madrid will host a final between Liverpool and Spurs. Like most football fans, I have affection for both. They are by some measure my favourites of the Premiership big spenders. Both spring from real communities. Both play attractive football. But although my respect for Spurs goes back to the early sixties, Liverpool, of course, have an intimate relationship with the Red Sox with whom it shares community, great play, and ownership.
 
So I’m telling you now that Liverpool will have my support when the two teams meet on 1st June. Kick-off is at 8pm British time. and the game will take me happily into the early hours of Sunday morning when the Sox play in the Bronx.
 
I am beginning to enjoy the 2019 baseball season. I certainly enjoyed the pitching duel last night. Sale’s 7th inning was sublime: 9 pitches, 9 swings, 9 misses, 3 Ks.
 
Just for once, though, that wasn’t the highlight. The highlight came in the 11th inning - a walk-off home run from Baltimore’s Trey Mancini.
 
Except it wasn’t a home run. From nowhere Jackie climbed the wall, reached over into the bullpen and pulled it back into the park.
 
It was a game-changing moment. As Alex Cora said, “Shoot, if he doesn’t make that catch, we don’t win this game.”
 
And, I think, it was also a season-changing moment. An exclamation mark moment. A moment that is not only going to provide the stimulus for a revenge series win against Seattle.
 
I predict that it is going to provide momentum for the remaining 124 games.
 
Go Sox!
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: Back to Chris Forsyth, whose new album All Time Present has just been released. He also features in a truly fascinating episode of Brokedown Podcast - listen via iTunes, GooglePlay, Stitcher, and Spotify - in which he lists some of his favourite Dead shows. I commend it and the album to you.
 

​For many months, 29-03-2019 (03-29-2019 for my American readers) had been keenly anticipated in this household, though with mixed emotions. That Friday was, of course, the date on which for two years we had been led to believe we would leave the European Union. It was also, by tricks of time zones and scheduling, the opening day of the baseball season as the Sox took on Seattle in the early hours. I had hoped, naïvely perhaps, that the misery of the first would be outweighed by the joy of the second. In fact, both went haywire.
 
The UK is still in the EU, the relationship hanging by a thread as confusion reigns inside and outside Parliament. And on the West Coast, the World Series champions are currently 1-5, after being thrashed by the Mariners and failing to score on successive nights in Oakland.
 
Until the last couple of days, the confusing performances of a team which is essentially unchanged from the 108 game winners last year has been attributed to the rotation, which has been widely touted as the best in baseball. At its best, it surely is. But it would appear that all five are still only half way through spring training right now.
 
The velocity isn’t there. Location isn’t there.  We’ve had one quality start in six, in last night’s single run loss.
 
I watched a great deal of spring training. Afternoon games in the Eastern time zone are a delight for European fans, who can tune in at 6pm and enjoy a glass whilst taking vicarious pleasure in the Florida weather and the ballgame itself. And while winning the Grapefruit League comes quite a ways down on my list of priorities, it is always a pleasure to see a W or two.
 
Last year, there were many. And it showed in the 17-2 start which set the tone for the season and the post-season.
 
This year, not so much. In fact, we sat rock bottom in the Grapefruit League, under .500.
 
How many times have I been told that it doesn’t matter? Hell, how many times have I told people it doesn’t matter?
 
But it does. It is no accident, as Marxists would say, that the excellent results last year translated into excellent results in the season. And it is no accident that the dismal results this year evolved into this dismal start.
 
I understand that the pitchers need to be stretched. I appreciate that the hitters need to regain last year’s fluency of swing. I recognize that the development of fitness and skills is a gradual process.
 
But I am confused as to why Cora thought that, for example, Sale could open the season after just two short appearances in Florida. I am confused as to why he would, after such an outstanding spring training last year, change tack completely and adopt a totally different approach.
 
But what do I know? Only that confusion reigns. In the Red Sox camp and the Commons alike.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults:  A gig which took place on the fateful day of 29-03-2019. I like Garcia Peoples, but I love Chris Forsyth. And the nyctaper recording of the show demonstrates why. A good, energetic set from the band. And then an hour of extraordinary stuff with Chris Forsyth: Techno Top > The Calvary Cross > The Other One. Mesmerizing. Literally.

When I excused myself briefly from a meeting last night, I confess that it was not – as many may have surmised – the old prostate playing up. I was actually checking on the score in the spring training game between the Sox and the Nationals and thus heard in real time the breaking news that Bryce Harper had signed for the Phillies. €330 million and 10 years was quoted by OB, though it turns out to be 13 years. With no opt-outs!
 
Returning to the meeting room, I found it difficult to focus on preparations for the local elections in my part of Leamington, which is in any case pretty much LibDem Central. I spent the rest of the time working out how this affects the Phillies luxury tax threshold and speculating about the future of Sox closer Kimbrel.
 
The deal with Harper is the biggest single guaranteed contract in baseball.
 
And not merely in baseball. It is the biggest deal in American sports history. In technical terms, it is a shedload of dosh. More even than the previous records – cash and duration - held (briefly) by Stanton at the Yankees and Machado at the Padres.
 
Is Harper worth it?
 
Nah. No-one is. Not even a generational talent like Harper.
 
But that won’t matter to Phillies fans if they win the title. It will, however, matter to Phillies fans if Harper doesn’t do the business. There are one or two Sox players who can tell you what happens to you reputation when a huge contract coincides with diminishing stats. (Where are you now, Carl Crawford?)
 
It’s going to be tough. Can one guy make all the difference to a team that was under .500 last year?
 
He’s got 19 games against the club he has grown up with. He’s got the Mets 19 times. And in August, he’s got a couple of games against the Sox. (We get Machado and the Padres immediately after!)
 
But he knows the National League East well and he’s walking into a hitter’s park (though for lefties not so much) - and they are already talking about Trout next year.
 
It’s all talk, of course, with about as much substance as the rumours that he had turned down Philly and was heading for LA. Only the Dodgers fans believed that.
 
And it doesn’t make a huge amount of difference one way or the other to the Red Sox Nation. Philly won’t go for Kimbrel now unless he drops his demands to a year, in which case he might as well stay with us. If we still want him and maybe we don’t.
 
My response to the whole saga is, I’m afraid, dismissive:

​“Hey, it's no big deal!”

                 RIP Nick Cafardo
              and thanks for the lift.
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: I was alerted by the excellent Roy Kelly to an article in the New York Times about the Dead and Dark Star, which included a 12 Greatest Dark Stars listing. My need for displacement activity prompted the compilation of my own list, which features (to date) the 20 Greatest. Currently playing is 1970-02-14 at Fillmore East, which eases into St Stephen and The Eleven. So maybe 21 Greatest. 110 to go.

Anyone who has penned a single word about sport will be in awe of Hugh McIlvanney, who died last week. We will miss his insights into and understanding of his subject; but most of all, we will miss his prose. Few writers have managed to articulate so beautifully the cathartic power of, in particular, football and boxing. Fewer still have been able to communicate the exhilaration and despair of those spots of time – memorable moments of triumph or despair which occur in almost every sporting contest.
 
The author Rick Gekoski, no mean sportswriter himself, once wrote that “Sport makes you write, and think, and feel, in exclamation marks”. Which is true for even the most seasoned of us. In 2004, the Boston Globe headlined the Sox World Series victory, their first since 1918, in this way: YES!!! Nothing nuanced: just one word, one syllable, in capitals, with no less than three exclamation marks (or screamers as they are known).
 
I doubt whether McIlvanney would have done this. However tight the deadline, his judgements were as measured as his prose. The emotional sub-text was implicit rather than overt.
 
It is because I lean towards Rick and the Globe in my response to great sporting events that I admired McIlvanney so much. Although he insisted on being known as a ‘reporter’, he was not. One did not turn to his piece to find a blow by blow account of a bout or a goal by goal record of a football match. We valued his writing because it concerned itself with what it meant: to the players, to the coaches, to those who were present as spectators. It is significant that he numbered amongst his closest friends those who were involved totally in the sports about which he wrote. They – Jock Stein, Bill Shankly, Alex Ferguson, Angelo Dundee – knew that he knew and understood as much about their game as they did.
 
In a few weeks, I will be taking part in a round table at the History Department of Warwick University which concerns itself with sportswriting. My fellow panellists – Dave Sternburg, Simon Hart – are stars in the firmament. I am not.
 
Although I am on record with my views about Coventry City Football Club and Warwickshire County Cricket Club, my prime focus is on my beloved Boston Red Sox and the life of a fan based in the baseball desert which is the United Kingdom. (Although judging by the demand for tickets for the Yankees games at the London Stadium this summer, there are more of us in this country than we imagine.)
 
I tend not to engage in a recitation of baseball stats – when I did I was mildly chastised for doing so. Rather, my subject is my very personal and particular experiences of being a fan of a team which plays 3,000 miles away from my home.
 
In many ways, and certainly in the great order of things, it is a trivial pursuit. But almost every night, as I tune in to mlb.tv, I know that I will almost certainly witness something that only sport can provide:
 
In the words of Hugh McIlvanney, “a magnificent triviality”.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: After the fine performance of the Shostakovich String Quartet #2 in A major (actually mostly in A minor) by the Carducci Quartet on Friday evening, I am working my way through their Shostakovich cycle, including an advance copy of their new recordings of #1, #2 and #7. Magnificent and not trivial.

​

“New England can go back to bed” the Boston Globe told us on the morning after the Sox clinched the World Series, referring to the difference between the Eastern and Pacific time zones. Some of us in Old England would have appreciated a smidgeon of sympathy for the implications of the difference between Pacific Time and British Summer Time. But hey, it’s only eight hours – and we won!
 
I feel a lot better now, on Tuesday morning, after 18 innings worth of sleep last night, and the euphoria of my fourth World Series victory has eased. Don’t get me wrong: I’m still replaying highlights of the post-season in my head, but now the emotion is recollected in tranquility rather than embarrassing bouts of solo and solitary fist-pumping exhilaration.
 
The more I think about it – and I’m thinking about little else – the more I think we have witnessed something quite extraordinary in sports in general and baseball in particular.
 
Look at the stats. Spring training 17-2. Regular season 108-54. Post-season 11-3.
 
A friend described the 2018 Sox as a “juggernaut” which indicates a lack of finesse, the superiority of sheer power over nuanced skills. But it is true that the Sox were relentless throughout the season. Just look at the number of runs they scored with two outs. Just look at their ability to come back from the dead on so many occasions, notably in Game 4 of the Series itself.
 
Having finally succumbed in the bottom of the 18th to the Dodgers in the longest ever post-season game the night before, and then trailing 4-0 into the 7th in Game 4, the Sox came through 9-6.
 
What changed? Well, you can point to Steve Pearce’s four RBIs. But more important I think was the contribution from a man who was not playing at all. Chris Sale suddenly emerged as a version of Big Papi in Detroit, ranting, goading, exhorting, encouraging and insisting that his team-mates come through.
 
The TV did not pick up what he said. Cora later said that his English wasn’t good enough to understand, and Devers said that he couldn’t repeat it.
 
We can guess at the vocabulary. But we know for sure that it worked. The Sox scored nine runs from the seventh inning on to re-establish its dominance of the Dodgers.
 
The historic casting of the Sox as underdogs which some of us cling to is long gone. This was no David and Goliath scenario. The Dodgers had won 92 games in the regular season. The Yankees had 100 – they were beaten in their own house in the Divisional Series. And the Astros entered the Championship Series with 103 regular season wins. The Sox beat them in Houston.
 
In my naivety, I had predicted that each series would go to the wire. Oh ye of little faith!
 
In 2018, the Sox were simply the best. From beginning to end, from April to October. And my prediction is, it will get better.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: After the World Series, the Bootleg Series: A first listen to More Blood, More Tracks. If you thought having the New York version as well as Minnesota was enough, think again. The development of these songs, as evidenced by this series of complete recordings, is fascinating, illuminating and rewarding The pick for me, today, is an early take of Call Letter Blues.