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make it.
    Frank Frisch, a member of the Hall of Fame Veterans Committee, once told Lewis: “You, Speaker and Hooper all should have gone into the Hall of Fame at the same time. As the best outfield of your day, it would have been right.”
    Lewis shrugged it off. “A lot of people have said I should have gone in with the others. But I have no regrets. I’m doing all right.”
    Duffy Lewis died in Salem, New Hampshire, in 1979 at the age of 91. He was inducted into the Red Sox Hall of Fame in 2002.

    The 10-foot-high incline in left field that abutted the wall (visible behind players) was named for Duffy Lewis (opposite page), the Red Sox left fielder who mastered its vagaries.
    LENDING AN EAR TO DE VALERA
     
    Eamon de Valera, president of the Irish Republic, came to America in 1919 to plead the cause of independence for the fledgling Irish state, and his visit to Boston brought a massive crowd of 50,000 to Fenway Park.
    The Globe ’s A.J. Philpott wrote, “It was an inspiring assemblage—one in which the spirit of the Irish people rose above the spirit of faction, of group or party.” Of the Irish president, he wrote, “The very mystery which attaches to this man, who was comparatively unheard of until recently, somehow fulfilled the dreams of the race—that some great figure would arise at the crucial moment and lead Ireland to freedom. In the thoughtful, militant, clean-cut face and gaunt personality of de Valera there is somehow also personified that new spirit which has come to Irishmen in which the demand has superseded the appeal for justice to Ireland. In that vast audience, you sensed this new dignity that has sunk into their consciousness.”
    A large audience was expected, according to the Globe . But instead of 25,000, some 50,000 descended on the grounds. They filled the grandstand first, and then the wings on the right and left, and then they poured into the field and filled the space between the platform and grandstand—jammed it—then flowed around and backward in all directions, and there were thousands on the streets outside.
    It was an ideal day for a great outdoor meeting—clear, sunny, and not too warm—and the location could not have been much improved. When a series of resolutions demanding the recognition of the Irish Republic were read, the unanimous “Ayes” could be heard over in Dorchester, and the silence that followed when the call came for the “Nays” led to a shout of laughter.
    Some excitement was caused when three mounted policemen forced a passageway through the crowd to enable the committee, with President de Valera, to reach the speaker’s platform, which had been erected near home plate of the baseball diamond. On the whole, however, it was an orderly and patient audience. More than 20,000 members of the crowd stood from about 2 o’clock until after 5 o’clock, when “The Star-Spangled Banner” was sung and the audience dispersed quietly.
    Two days later, as Eamon de Valera left New England for New York, he issued a message thanking the people of the region: “I did not need to come to Boston or to America to know that Americans would not lend themselves to an act of injustice against an ancient nation that clung to its traditions and maintained its spirit of independence through seven centuries of blood and tears. In the name of Ireland, I thank you.”
    By June 25, when the pennant finally was raised before a chilled crowd of only 6,500, the Sox were only in fifth. In mid-July, McAleer replaced Stahl, who’d played only two games due to a foot injury, with catcher Bill Carrigan. A player-manager who couldn’t play wasn’t much good, especially one who was rumored to want his job, McAleer reckoned. But the burly Carrigan, known as “Rough” for his rugged play behind the plate, couldn’t pull his mates out of their hole and they finished fourth, more than 15 games behind Philadelphia. With no world championship to contend for, the Sox challenged the Braves to