_Base-Ball Ballads_
_BASE-BALL
BALLADS_
_By GRANTLAND RICE_
Sporting Editor the Nashville Tennessean
_Illustrated by C. H. WELLINGTON_
[Illustration]
THE TENNESSEAN COMPANY
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
COPYRIGHT, 1910,
BY
THE TENNESSEAN COMPANY.
DEDICATED TO THE FAN
From lowly bootblack of the town
To merchant prince of high renown,
Or butcher, baker, candle-maker,
Lawyer, doctor, undertaker,
Priest or farmer, young or old,
Or rich or poor within the fold,
So that his spirit bows before
The bondage of the full box score--
Whatever be his name or fame,
So that his heart leans to the GAME.
CONTENTS.
Page.
PLAY BALL 9
WHEN THE BUG IS ON THE BAWL 10
CASEY’S REVENGE 12
THE BUG’S VIEW-POINT 17
THE COURTSHIP OF A SON OF SWAT 19
THE BUSH LEAGUER’S DREAM 22
SPRINGTIME IN THE HISTORY ROOM 24
THE HOLD-OUT LEAGUE 26
THE SONG OF THE BASE HIT 28
ON THE ROAD TO ROOTERS’ ROW 30
“TILL THE LAST MAN IS OUT” 32
THE BUSHERS 34
THE CLIMAX OF FAN JOY 3
SONGS OF SWAT--“YOU USTER BAT .300” 38
THE TEST 40
THE LAUGH ON NERO 41
CURFEWED 44
THE FAN AND HIS WAY 47
OVER THE PLATE 49
KNOCKING SLANG 51
THE REAL SPRINGTIME 53
THE RAVEN UP-TO-DATE 54
A DAY IN THE BLEACHERS 57
A WARNING 59
OUT ON THE LINES 61
ON MEMORY’S WALL 62
THE GAME 64
MUDVILLE’S FATE 65
A TOAST WORTH WHILE 68
THE CHAMPS OF THE ALLEY LEAGUE 70
THE MAN WHO PLAYED WITH ANSON ON THE OLD CHICAGO TEAM 73
THE RECORD 78
“THE MAJOR LEAGUER’S DAUGHTER; OR, THE TURNING OF THE TIDE” 79
PEN SNAPSHOT OF THE BRITISH FAN 82
ON THE COACHING LINE 84
THE GOODS 86
THE WINTER LEAGUE WONDER 87
A TIP TO THE FAN FLOCK 89
AS THE GAME “BREAKS” 91
THE GRAND OLD WINTER LEAGUE 93
THE SLIDE OF PAUL REVERE 94
THE ANNUAL RETURN 96
IN THE GOOD OLD WINTER TIME 98
AFTER THE GAME 100
ON ROOTERS’ ROW 101
THE LOVE SONNETS OF A SON OF SWAT 103
AT THE END OF THE GAME 107
THE MOGUL’S DREAM 109
HARD-LUCK ADAM 111
DENTON (CY) YOUNG 112
THE UMP’S MIDWINTER DREAM 114
A REAL JOB FOR TEDDY 116
THE SHOCK 119
WHEN “WIFEY” READS DOPE 120
A HARD-LUCK YARN 122
A FAN’S DIARY 124
GAME CALLED 128
BASE-BALL BALLADS.
PLAY BALL.
“Play ball”--across the field of green
The signal sounds the game again;
Once more there reels across the scene
The shout and wild acclaim again;
The game is on, the fight begun,
Across the line of battle’s span
Until the final score is spun
With every record of the clan.
“Play ball”--the reveille has rolled
The bugle call to play again;
Once more beneath the banner’s fold
They troop across the way again;
The game is on, and in the fray
The tumult and the cheering sweep
Across the battle line of play
Until the twilight shadows creep.
“Play ball”--the slogan of the game
Of life, of war, of love or hate;
For rank or wealth, for name or fame
The player stands against the plate;
The game is on, and in the strife
Where Fate, the pitcher, speeds the ball
The player plays the game of life
Until the final shadows fall.
WHEN THE BUG IS ON THE BAWL.
Come, sing ye, Jimmy Riley, from your ancient lyric stock,
“When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in the shock,”
And we’ll let the bounding echoes catch the lyric in your lay
As it darts around the bases to the outfield and away;
For there’s music in its make-up and there’s rhythm in its run,
With a touch of “back to nature” in its sentiment of fun.
But in some way it has struck us that the theme is out of date,
As a new age comes a-whizzing and a-curving by the plate;
So we’ll start another chorus as the echoes rise and fall:
“When the bat is on the bingle and the bug is on the bawl.”
Come, sing ye, Jimmy Riley, and we’ll listen to your strain,
But we find our thoughts a-straying from the waving of the grain
To the waving of the bludgeons as the batters draw ’em back,
And they wave against the trade-mark with a wallop and a whack,
And “the swimmin’ hole” is faded, with its one-time tender pull,
To the “hole” the pitcher’s got in with the bloomin’ bases full;
And while, whatever happens, we will never have a knock
For the “frost upon the pumpkin and the fodder in the shock,”
There’s a later theme that draws us where the echoes rise and fall.
When the bat is on the bingle and the bug is on the bawl.
So come ye, Jimmy Riley, with a later song to sing:
“When the fan is on the frolic and the wallop on the wing,
When the swing is on the spitter and the swipe is on the swat,
When the bum is on the bobble and he boots one round the lot,
When the break is on the bender and the squad is on the slump,
Or the flag is on the flutter and the brick is on the ump.”
Belay that ancient chatter of the “fodder, frost, and shock”
When the rooter’s on the rampage and the knocker’s on the knock;
For a later theme has drawn us where the echoes rise and fall--
When the bat is on the bingle and the bug is on the bawl.
CASEY’S REVENGE.
There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;
There were muttered oaths and curses--every fan in town was sore.
“Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,
And then to think he’d go and spring a bush league trick like that!”
All his past fame was forgotten--he was now a hopeless “shine.”
They called him “Strike-Out Casey,” from the mayor down the line;
And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.
He pondered in the days gone by that he had been their king,
That when he strolled up to the plate they made the welkin ring;
But now his nerve had vanished, for when he heard them hoot
He “fanned” or “popped out” daily, like some minor league recruit.
He soon began to sulk and loaf, his batting eye went lame;
No home runs on the score card now were chalked against his name;
The fans without exception gave the manager no peace,
For one and all kept clamoring for Casey’s quick release.
The Mudville squad began to slump, the team was in the air;
Their playing went from bad to worse--nobody seemed to care.
“Back to the woods with Casey!” was the cry from Rooters’ Row.
“Get some one who can hit the ball, and let that big dub go!”
The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again,
And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men;
And Casey smiled; his rugged face no longer wore a frown--
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.
All Mudville had assembled--ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box, the multitude went wild;
He doffed his cap in proud disdain, but Casey only smiled.
“Play ball!” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began.
But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
Who thought that Mudville had a chance, and with the setting sun
Their hopes sank low--the rival team was leading “four to one.”
The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;
But when the first man up hit safe, the crowd began to roar;
The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.
Three men on base--nobody out--three runs to tie the game!
A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;
But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night,
When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out to right.”
A dismal groan in chorus came; a scowl was on each face
When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed, his teeth were clenched in hate;
He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.
But fame is fleeting as the wind and glory fades away;
There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day;
They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored: “Strike him out!”
But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.
The pitcher smiled and cut one loose--across the plate it sped;
Another hiss, another groan. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
Zip! Like a shot the second curve broke just below the knee.
“Strike two!” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.
No roasting for the umpire now--his was an easy lot;
But here the pitcher whirled again--was that a rifle shot?
A whack, a crack, and out through the space the leather pellet flew,
A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.
Above the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight
The sphere sailed on--the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.
Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit,
But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.
O, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,
And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun!
And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall,
But Mudville hearts are happy now, _for Casey hit the ball_.
THE BUG’S VIEW-POINT.
Beyond the sleet, across the snows
He did not see the budding rose
That waved its crimson welcome to
An earth of green, a sky of blue,
Nor yet the daffy daffodils
That crowned the valleys and the hills;
The apple blossoms, pink and white,
That drifted into lanes of light;
He did not hear the bluebird sing
Nor yet the south wind whispering
In murmur through the maple trees
That swayed and slanted to the breeze
And harbored on each bending limb
The maker of a woodland hymn--
And yet, like every living thing,
He, too, had drawn his dream of spring.
He saw a gent arrayed in blue
Heave boldly into public view,
And in a fog-horn tenor call
To thousands: “Batter up--play ball!”
He saw a tall guy nod and beck
And then cut one around the neck,
While in a trance the slugger there
Inanely paddled at the air;
He saw the shortstop leave his place
And flag one back of second base
And wing it swiftly on ahead
To where the dashing runner sped;
He saw, before his flashing eye,
The keen outfielder fenceward fly,
And with a mighty effort pull
The drive down with the bases full.
He heard once more the rooters call,
The ringing clash of bat and ball,
The cry of “Belt it on the snout!
Don’t try to bunt there, whale it out!”
The groans and curses, cheers and jeers
Like music tinkled in his ears;
The grandstand rocked and roared in strife,
The howling bleachers leaped to life,
As whooping, jeering, shouting, cheering,
Praying, cursing, pleading, fearing,
Stamping, howling, smiling, growling,
Laughing, weeping, snarling, scowling,
Over city, field, and glen
The Bugland Chorus rang again--
For he, like every other thing,
Had drawn his dream of golden spring.
THE COURTSHIP OF A SON OF SWAT.
They were seated in the parlor, and the lights were burning dim--
He was a major leaguer, she a fan, so fair and trim;
But they knew not as he opened up the game by murmuring “Love”
That father was the umpire on the stairway just above.
“I like your form,” he led off first; “with me you’ve made a hit;
Your curves are good, you’ve got the speed, and you are looking fit.
Now if with you, my turtle dove, I make a hit likewise,
Won’t you improve my single life and make a sacrifice?”
“I’ll promise to support you, dear, with all my skill each day;
I’ll draft a pretty home for you and fix it right away.
If you’ll just call the game a tie, I will no longer roam;
And when I slide into the plate, please call me safe at home.”
“First tell me, sir,” she pitched at him, “how high you ranked last fall;
Show me your fielding average and how hard you hit the ball.
[Illustration: _He swung like Wagner at his best, a sole-inspiring
clout;_
_The son of swat slid down the steps; the umpire yelled: “You’re
out.”_]
In matrimony’s busy league dumb plays are out of place;
I’d like to know the dope before I play too far off base.”
“Remember that the game is rough when pay days fail to come;
Sometimes the salary whip is lame, the noodle’s on the bum;
And don’t forget you’ll be reserved for life and held in line,
But promise me you’ll never jump your contract, and I’ll sign.”
He started warming up at once, with victory in his eye,
He shoved a fast one round her neck, the other was waist high.
Just here the umpire butted in. She said: “O, father, please,
There’s nothing wrong, for George is only showing me the squeeze!”
The old man gave an irate snort and said: “I’ll help the fun
By showing George another play that’s called ‘the hit and run.’”
He swung like Wagner at his best, a sole-inspiring clout;
The son of swat slid down the steps; the umpire yelled: “You’re out!”
THE BUSH LEAGUER’S DREAM.
(From our “Songs of the Spring Recruit.”)
I.
The young recruit stood dreaming where the sultry sun was beaming,
With the perspiration streaming down his neck;
He had missed four easy chances, which aroused some angry glances,
And he saw his big league fancies were a wreck;
His work had been erratic, and he heard one mad fanatic
Yell in tones far from ecstatic: “Chase that cheese!”
Whereupon he drew a vision that was all to the Elysian,
And he spoke with much decision words like these:
_Chorus._
“If I could run the bases like Bill Bryan,
If I only had Ted Roosevelt’s batting eye,
If I had the reach of Thomas Fortune Ryan,
I’d never let another chance get by;
If I only was as cool as Charley Fairbanks;
Or had control like Harriman has got,
I’d be the diamond daisy, and I’d set the bleachers crazy,
For I’d be the greatest player of the lot.”
II.
There had been a dearth of scoring, and the anxious Bugs were roaring
In the bleachers and imploring for a hit,
Until finally one fellow plucked a triple, ripe and mellow,
And the way those fans did bellow in a fit!
Just one little tap would cinch it, just one timely little pinch hit,
And the contest would be safely on the shelf;
But the bush league phenom madly swung in vain at three, then sadly
Walked away and murmured softly to himself:
_Chorus._
“If I only had a batting eye like Teddy,
If I had the speed of John D. ducking fines,
I’d have a big league job and hold it steady,
For I’d make both Cobb and Wagner look like shines;
If I could only ‘steal’ (in running bases)
Like all these ‘malefactors of great wealth,’
I’d be the diamond daisy, and I’d set the bleachers crazy,
And I wouldn’t be here playing for my health.”
SPRINGTIME IN THE HISTORY ROOM.
She spoke of Alexander as an eminent commander,
And showed ’em how this gentleman was always on the job;
But freckled Mickie Horner, blinking over in the corner,
Dreamed of Cobb.
She praised the late J. Cæsar as a keen, artistic geezer
Whose performances in most ways deserved a lasting bonus;
But little Tim O’Grady, though his eyes were on the lady,
Thought of Honus.
She lauded Mr. Hannibal, the chocolate-colored cannibal;
But when she asked young Heinie Schmidt who made the Romans dance,
With his brain-wheels on the whir, Heinie, looking up at her,
Answered: “Chance.”
She spoke of Greek and Roman and of horsemen and bowmen,
Of phalanxes and legions in the mediæval game,
Of Goths and Huns and Vandals and such other early scandals
Known to fame.
But young Timothy O’Toole, as he cantered home from school,
Lost but little time forgetting what he termed “a bunch of dubs,”
As he doped the playing science of the Pirates, Sox, and Giants
And the Cubs.
THE HOLD-OUT LEAGUE.
What has become of Bill Wiggins, the old star who passed up the game?
The three-hundred hitter who swore on his oath he would never return
to the same?
He is still out of line as he promised, but suffering deeply with pain--
Poor Bill broke a leg when reporting day came in an effort to catch
the first train.
Where is Pat Kelly, the slabman, who swore he had pitched his last ball?
Who tore up his contract and said with a roar he “was finished for
good and for all.”
When the Giants all meet at the depot, in vain Mr. Kelly they seek,
But they find on arriving in Texas that Pat has already been there a week.
“This dope I give out’s on the level,” said Mike in a hot interview.
“Just make it as strong as the paper will stand. I will never come
back; I am through.”
But when they arrived at the station, when the train to the training
camp led,
They had to tie Mike to a telegraph pole to keep him from running ahead.
There is gloom in the camp of the Pirates--the Giants throw a
fit of alarm,
For Matty and Wagner and Tenny have quit to take up a job on the farm.
But it’s queer when you turn to the line-up at the “Opening
Chorus of Bing,”
That the first guys to quit on the diamond each fall are the first
ones at bat in the spring.
THE SONG OF THE BASE HIT.
A twist, a whirl, and a sudden jar,
And off from the bat to the field afar--
Off like the shot from a ten-inch gun,
A gray-white streak through the slanting sun
I soar away
Through a summer’s day
Where the frantic fielders of the fray,
With dervish dance
And anguished glance,
Come whirling in to cop me;
But I glide between
With a mocking mien,
And there is none to stop me.
A shout, a roar, and a ringing cheer,
And on my way through the atmosphere
I leap to the light where clenched hands grip
As wild eyes watch me fly or skip
Through open space
In headlong race,
As the joy of the ages lights each face
And pulses jump
With a vibrant thump
As the sky reels from the roar,
And the rafters ring
With the song I sing
To the tune of the winning score!
The song I sing is the sweetest song
Or the saddest note to the waiting throng
That the world has known through the ages dim--
With keener lilt than a battle hymn,
For my refrain
Brings joy and pain,
Where lost hopes rise and fond hopes wane,
And in my path
Sweeps a city’s wrath
Or a city’s wild acclaim,
And the planet’s ring
With the song I sing--
The song of a nation’s game!
ON THE ROAD TO ROOTERS’ ROW.
(Letting Mr. Kipling in, of course, on a bit of the graft.)
I.
In each long-deserted ball park from New York to Tennessee
There’s the whisper of an echo wafted forth to you and me;
For the wind calls through the pine trees and the maples, soft and low:
“Come ye back, ye wild Fanatic--come ye back to Rooters’ Row.”
On the road to Rooters’ Row,
In the sunlight’s golden glow,
Can’t you hear those mad Bugs whooping
As the pitcher fans a foe?
On the road to Rooters’ Row,
Where the sad fans wail in woe--
Then a cheer comes up like thunder
When the shortstop lays him low.
II.
When the peanut husks are falling and the “pop” is flowing free,
Where they pound you on the backbone in a massive fit of glee,
Where the “Hit ’er out, you sucker!” greets the batsman true and tried;
Then a boding hush of terror, then a “Slide, you bonehead, slide!”
On the road to Rooters’ Row, etc.
III.
O the war whoops from the coachers as they writhe and dance about!
O the “joshing” of the Sun Gods as they rise up with a shout!
O the call of “thief” and “pirate” at the Fan Flock’s greatest foe,
As the lordly umpire wanders once again by Rooters’ Row!
On the road to Rooters’ Row, etc.
IV.
Ship me somewhere into springtime where a sprinter starts for “first,”
Where the only one commandment is “To win, or you’re the worst;”
For I feel the fever coming once again to hear the call
Of the vibrant-voiced director and his “Batter up--play ball!”
On the road to Rooters’ Row, etc.
“TILL THE LAST MAN IS OUT.”
Old pal, is the game just a trifle too rough?
Is the flag of success floating out of your view?
Does the schedule of Life seem too rocky and tough?
Is the umpire “throwing it into you?”
It may look that way, but fight on just the same,
Get back at your rivals with “clout for clout;”
Don’t think you are beaten and so pull up lame,
For “the game’s never lost till the last man is out.”
“Run out every hit,” whether hard one or not,
“Sacrifice” right when it’s well up to you;
Don’t try to “hammer the ball from the lot,”
Just “hit where they ain’t,” and a single will do.
There’s many a line-up that came from behind
When the outlook was gloomy and clouded with doubt;
You’ll be in the running if you’ll bear in mind:
“No game’s ever lost till the last man is out.”
Quite often the “hoodoo will camp on your trail,”
And the luck break against you with never a stop;
The harder you struggle, the more you will fail
As you “fumble ’em,” “boot ’em,” and “let ’em all drop.”
But it’s all “in the game,” so swing on to your pace,
And don’t mind the knocking that’s floating about;
It’s the finish that counts, not the start of the race,
And “the game’s never lost till the last man is out.”
Good fortune may take you along for a day,
But Fortune is fickle; don’t bank on her strong.
“Fast work on the bases” in each scrappy fray,
With “team work and hitting,” will take you along.
You can’t help your errors, but cut out “dumb plays,”
For those are the miscues that put you to rout;
“Stand up to the plate” and remember always:
“The game’s never lost till the last man is out.”
L’ENVOI.
When you ponder it over, they’re both much the same,
For life, just like baseball, is shrouded in doubt;
And the point in them both is to “play out the game,”
And never give up till “the last man is out.”
THE BUSHERS.
(A big advance order is now in for Christy Matthewson’s forthcoming
volume on baseball; John L. Sullivan is at work upon a romance of
the ring, of which he is the hero; Battling Nelson has just closed
up a comfortable wad upon his edition of “The Life and Battles of
Matthew Battling Nelson.”)
What league did Shakespeare ever lead?
That busher Byron had the nerve
To peddle out poetic creed,
Who never batted at a curve.
I’ll bet this Dante was a bluff,
And minor leaguer on the side;
For while he wrote a bale of stuff,
His name is not in Spaulding’s guide.
What belt did Homer ever win?
Fine chance that dub would have to-day
To cash in on the easy tin
Who never put his man away;
And Milton had the nerve to try
To make a living out of verse,
Who never closed a rival’s eye
Or split the big end of a purse.
No wonder in the days of yore
Those ancient artists had no chance
To chew a steak--or that they wore
Big, healthy patches on their pants;
In place of farming out a crop
Of rhyme and meter without flaw,
They should have learned to throw a drop
Or slam a wallop to the jaw.
THE CLIMAX OF FAN JOY.
There was cheering in the grandstand when Bill Bradley hit to right,
And the bleachers whooped and clamored in a chorus of delight;
And when the twirler lost control and passed the next two “up,”
The wine of human happiness brimmed swiftly o’er the cup.
The bases full, with two men out, and Larry at the bat.
O, can you wonder that each fan should stand and wave his hat?
Or can you wonder that the yelp should percolate the gloam,
With Larry waiting anxiously to bring the runners home?
The pitcher whirls and cuts one loose--a brawny gent is he--
And, like a cannon shot, it shoots above the batsman’s knee;
He swings--and lo! from every throat of that excited crowd
There comes a shriek of fiendish joy--protracted long and loud.
[Illustration: _The greatest laugh of all crowns a scrappy game of ball_
_When a foul-tip cracks the umpire on the knee._]
The fans arise and yelp in glee, while hats are thrown in air;
The mighty chorus echoes from the ball yard to the square;
It rumbles down the valley and resounds from peak to peak,
And leagues away it travels on in one discordant shriek.
They stamp and shout in maddened rout; they joyfully embrace--
A smile of perfect happiness illumines every face;
Nor does the tumult quickly die, but, in exultant roar,
It gathers volume like the waves which lash the ocean’s shore.
“Then Larry must have made a hit and cleared the sacks,” you say,
“Thus winning with a mighty swat the hard-fought, brilliant fray!”
No, Larry didn’t make a hit; the cause of all this din,
The inshoot caromed off his bat and cracked the umpire’s shin.
SONGS OF SWAT--“YOU USTER BAT .300.”
A once Big Leaguer slid in home at 3 a.m. one morn
With a perfect fielding average in the League of Barleycorn.
He had pulled down fifteen high balls, every one quite warm and hot,
And at every chance presented he was Wagner on the spot.
But as he fumbled at the key his wife was waiting there
With his favorite ash furniture suspended in the air;
And as he tried to curve across she bunted at his head
And slammed a triple on his neck as viciously she said:
_Chorus._
“You uster to hit .300--O, your batting was immense!
You uster slam ’em every day against the left field fence;
But now you’re in a bush league, for there ain’t no guy in sight
Can bat around three hundred, Bo, who bats around all night.”
The Leaguer tried to play it safe before she fanned him out.
“I’ll make a sacrifice,” he cried, “but ease up on that clout;
Hans Wagner never saw the day when he could hit like that.
I only wish that John McGraw could see you swing a bat.”
In vain he tried to score a run; in vain he shed each tear;
In vain he tried to reach his mask and breast protector near.
She tagged him all around the room, no matter how he’d slide,
And rapped out doubles on his back as viciously she cried:
_Chorus._
“You uster to hit .300--O, your batting eye was great!
The pitchers uster to jump the league when you came to the plate;
But now they’ve got you faded, for there ain’t no guy in sight
Can bat around three hundred, Bo, who bats around all night.”
THE TEST.
Never mind the speed you’ve got,
Never mind about your curve,
Though it sail around the lot
With a zigzag and a swerve;
How you grip or twist the ball
Enters not upon the scroll;
Here’s the answer to it all:
How is your control?
Never mind how hard you swing,
Or the keenness of your eye,
As the pitcher takes a fling
And the pellet whistles by;
With the hard-fought battle done,
Here’s the answer to it all:
When a base hit might have won,
Did you hit the ball?
Never mind about the luck,
Or the umpire robbing you--
How the Fates were there to buck
Everything you tried to do;
Cut it out and let it go;
In the Book of Praise or Blame
This is all there is to know:
Did you play the game?
THE LAUGH ON NERO.
Among the Coliseum throng King Nero sat him down;
A toga wrapped his shoulder blade, upon his face a frown.
“Ho! turn the tigers loose,” he cried, “and bring the lions out!”
At which the massive mob stood up and cheered with mighty shout.
The fiercest lions Numidia had ever grown were there,
The most blood-thirsty Tigerines from Bengal’s far-famed lair.
For weeks no food of any sort had been left in their cage
To work each beast into a pitch of gnawing, clawing rage.
Out in the center of the throng the victim took his stand,
A careless smile upon his lips, no weapon in his hand;
He looked serenely on the mob which clamored for his gore,
And faced the tiges with smothered yawns, unmindful of their roar.
The signal given, with a snarl each lion and tiger rushed
Upon their prey, while all around the multitude sat hushed,
[Illustration: _But lo, the victim stood his ground, and with a lordly
air_
_He waved each lion and tiger back and gave them glare for glare._]
While waiting for their victim to be scattered, limb from limb,
And many Roman coins were bet on what they’d do to him.
But lo! the victim stood his ground, and with a lordly air
He waved each lion and tiger back and gave them glare for glare.
He listened while they growled around and howled at him a bit;
Then pointed toward the nearest gate and simply answered, “Git!”
Before that gesture and that look--that voice so cold and keen--
The growling monsters beat it very quickly from the scene;
While with a bored and blasé air, unmindful of his cup,
The victim took another “chew,” and cried, “Next batter up.”
Upon his perch King Nero sat, quite thunderstruck with awe.
“This is the strangest gent,” said he, “that I have ever saw.
By all the gods of ancient Rome who can this duffer be?”
“I used to umpire,” he replied; “this job was pie for me.”
CURFEWED.
Fringed by clouds, the sun was setting
O’er the hills so far away,
Filling all the land with beauty
At the close of yesterday.
And the straggling rays, descending,
Fell upon all fandom there--
Fans with aching, anguished bosoms,
Fans bowed down in bleak despair.
“Jimmy,” said a little newsboy
To a ragged pal near by,
Who sat frowning at the score board
With a teardrop in his eye,
“We ain’t got a chance to make it;”
And his face was set and white.
“Orth has got us on the hog train--
Cleveland can’t win out to-night.”
Every fan from box to bleachers
Sat in silence, sick and sore,
As each inning sped by swiftly
And the Naplets failed to score;
For New York had pounded Otto
Steadily from left to right,
So it looked like easy money
Cleveland wouldn’t win that night.
In the meanwhile Orth was puzzling
Every batter on our team;
So the chance to land a victory
Seemed an empty, idle dream.
Nothing doing in the seventh,
Till at last above the crowd
New York’s brace of luscious tallies
Hovered like a midnight cloud.
Sitting on his bench, Clark Griffith
Softly murmured: “Twenty-three,
Skidoo, Larry, to the shadows
Of the Ancient Apple Tree.”
Mr. Orth was smiling blandly,
With the finish just in sight,
Thinking as he shot one over:
“Cleveland’s out of it to-night.”
Two more rounds to make a rally,
Two more rounds to turn the trick!
Can you wonder for a minute
Why the cranks were feeling sick?
Not an echo from the grandstand,
There was dearth of whoops and cheers,
With the ghastly silence broken
Only by the splashing tears.
“Batter up,” said Umpire Connor.
Larry strode up to the plate
With a bludgeon in his talons,
While his teeth were clenched in hate.
_Bing!_ Was that another earthquake,
Or a cyclone in the air?
For the mighty shout that followed
Must have rumbled through the Square.
Rossman followed and the tumult
Grew into a maddened shout.
_Bing!_ The racket grew terrific;
Two on base and no one out.
Jackson next! And hopes long buried
Rose anew upon the wing.
“Soak her, Jimmy!” shrieked the rooters;
And the echo answered: _“Bing!”_
Bradley forced, but Bemis singled;
One had scored, and every sack
Had a sprinter only waiting
For another welcome crack.
Tighter, tighter grew the tension;
Stovall went to bat for Hess.
Stovall with his little horseshoe--
Lucky George? Well, I should guess.
Well, by now you’ve heard the story
Of the wild throw Conroy made
When he tagged out Harry Bemis
And a double play essayed.
Al Orth was a blighted being,
Griffith’s hair turned snowy white;
For, in place of New York winning,
Cleveland copped the game last night.
THE FAN AND HIS WAY.
There was a fan in our town, and he was wondrous wise;
“Aw, hit ’er out!” he’d yell in rage at every sacrifice;
And when some player tried to bunt and got choked off at first,
This wild-eyed fan arose in wrath, and bitterly he cursed:
“Of all the dubs as slow as tubs
I ever saw play ball,
Of all the jokes--the fat-head blokes--
That guy has got the call!
What made him spring a trick like that,
There ain’t nobody knows.
Chop out that bunt, you crazy runt,
And slap it on the nose!”
There was a fan in our town, and he was wondrous wise.
The selfsame gent that yelled in rage at every sacrifice;
But when a player lined one out, instead of sacrificing,
And cracked into a double play, the outburst was surprising:
“Of all the fat-heads, far and near,
I ever saw play ball,
Of all the mutts--the brainless butts--
That guy has got the call!
When it gets down to bush league work,
That lobster takes the cake.
Why don’t you bunt, you crazy runt,
When that’s the play to make?”
There was a fan in our town, and he had wondrous eyes,
And when the umpire called a strike he’d howl in mad surprise;
And on some play at second base, full fifty yards away,
Behind the screen he’d rise in wrath, with sundry things to say:
“What? That man out? Wake up, old scout!
No wonder we lose games!
He had that beat a dozen feet,
You second Jesse James!”
Of course the umpire, on the spot,
Could not outline the play
Like that wise guy with eagle eye,
Two hundred feet away.
There was a fan in our town--the team won out that night--
He swore by all the ancient gods the bunch was out of sight;
Next day they lost, but what he said was private information,
Or what is technically called “unfit for publication.”
“----!----!----!
D----!----!----!”
And other phrases which, alas!
I know, beyond a doubt,
Would bring a moral shock if I
Should fill the spaces out.
OVER THE PLATE.
Bill Jones had the speed of a cannon ball;
He could loosen a brick from a three-foot wall.
When he shot one across, it would hurtle by
Too swiftly for even the surest eye.
No one could hit him when he was right,
As no eye could follow the ball’s quick flight.
Bill should have starred in a big league rôle,
But he stuck to the “minors”--he lacked control.
Jack Smith had a curve like a loop-the-loop;
It would start for your head with a sudden swoop
And break to your knee with a zigzag wave,
And the league’s best batters would roar and rave
At the jump it took and the sudden swerve.
Shades of the Boomerang! What a curve!
But Jack’s still doomed to a “bush league” Fate--
He could not “get it across” the plate.
Tom Brown had both the speed and the curves,
A combination which jarred the nerves.
He would steam ’em by till they looked like peas,
And they’d take a jump from your neck to your knees,
From the best to the worst in the league--by Jing!
He had them all in the Phantom Swing,
But he missed the mark of the Truly Great--
Poor Tom, he couldn’t locate the plate.
How is it with you, if I may ask?
Have you “got control” of your daily task?
Have you “got control” of your appetite?
Of your temper and tongue in the bitter fight?
Have you “got control” of your brawn and brain?
Or are you laboring all in vain?
It matters not what your daily rôle--
Have you GOT CONTROL? HAVE YOU GOT CONTROL?
It counts not what you may “have,” my friend,
When the story is told at the game’s far end;
The greatest brawn and the greatest brain
The world has known may be yours in vain.
The man “with control” is the one who mounts,
And it’s “how you use what you’ve got” that counts.
Have you got “the bead?” Are you aiming straight?
How much of your effort “goes over the plate?”
KNOCKING SLANG.
(_Collier’s Weekly_ and the _New York Tribune_ have started a
crusade against slang once more, and especially the brand used in
detailing ball games.)
Nix on the slang; chop out the stuff;
That ain’t no way to pass the dope out.
Crawl easy on this line of guff
And push it for a gentle slope out;
Don’t make the English spiel a joke
By crabbing up the conversation;
Give it a chance correctly spoke
Without some wise mutt’s explanation.
If there is one thing puts the punk
Kibosh upon me, it’s the geezer
Who’s always spieling out some junk
And running in some funny wheezer;
Who jams in with a bunch of talk
That listens like it had a cancer,
Until somebody calls a balk
And grabs a chart to pick the answer.
Why ain’t the old spiel good enough
That’s lined out in the dictionary,
That we must draw this cross-fire guff
To which no sane gazabe is jerry?
I’ll take mine in the simple buzz
When Noah Webster led the batting.
He had these slangsters on the buzz
When it came down to big league chatting.
Nix on this slang; it’s on the blink,
And my remarks are here emphatic.
The geek who slings it through the ink
Has beetles in his bush league attic.
Let’s slip in on the Big Revive
For scholarly and classic diction.
Come on, you mutts now, with the dive
And do a Brodie at this fiction.
THE REAL SPRINGTIME.
I do not care about the spring
Of which the high-browed poets sing--
Of vines, where budding blossoms cling,
And all that sort of blooming thing.
I care not for the triolet
Which boosts the early violet,
Nor buzzing bees, nor budding trees,
Nor scented stuff upon the breeze;
The bard who brays of meadows green
To me is balmy in the bean.
I do not care about the spring,
Of happy larks upon the wing,
Of mocking birds that rise and sing,
And all that fuzzy sort of thing;
I care not for the “April snow,”
Of white bloom wafted to and fro,
“The sunlit weather,” purple heather,
Lovers-down-the-lane-together;
The dope who draws this brand of throb
To me is knotty in the knob.
But hail--thrice hail--the golden spring
Which ushers in the spitball “fling;”
The echo of the three-base “bing,”
Which makes the Bugland welkin ring;
The shout across the Great Divide
Of “Slide, you bonehead lobster, slide!”
The mighty roar that sings the score,
The chance to lap the umpire’s gore;
T’ell with your mocking bird’s spring call--
Give me the melody, “Play ball.”
THE RAVEN UP-TO-DATE.
Last night while I pondered dreary, grouchy, sore, and limp and leary,
O’er the dope in my apartments, far up on the thirteenth floor;
As I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some bill collector,” thought I, “rapping at my chamber door--
Only that and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, I was thinking of September,
And the finish of the league race--what the future had in store;
And I started prophesying where the pennant would be flying,
Till at last I gave up trying, feeling very sad and sore,
For the dope was so uncertain that I gave up sad and sore,
Grumbling slowly: “Nevermore.”
As I sat there, nearly bug house, longing for a near-by jug house,
Once again I heard the tapping, tapping at my chamber door;
So I oped it, shrinking craven, wishing for some happy haven,
When, behold! there flapped a Raven, stalking in across the floor--
Stalking Edgar Allen Poeish, right across my rugless floor.
Ach, du Leiber! I was sore.
“Raven!” cried I, “why the devil have you come here? On the level,
I thought Mr. Poe had written you would enter nevermore.
What has brought you, you intriguer, with that look so keen and eager?
Speak up there, you old bush leaguer; why have you returned, you bore?
State your trouble and then skip, sir; leave me quickly, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven: “What’s the score?”
A DAY IN THE BLEACHERS.
(Being a true chronicle of the comments offered by Mike the Bite as the
game was in progress, wedged into verse.)
I.
W’at’s dat? A _ball!_ Aw, say, yer make me weary.
Why don’t yer call dem strikes, you Jesse James?
No wonder dat the ball club’s lookin’ leery,
Wid blind men on de job empirin’ games.
I’m glad I left my watch at home, you pirate,
When I see de style wot goes wit’ you to-day.
Why, dat Ali Baba geezer was a fat-head bush league teaser
When it gits down to de scientific way.
II.
Wake up, you fathead! Take a wallop at it!
Swing at dem balls wot slopes across de plate!
Don’t stand dere like a blear-eyed mummy--bat it!
is ain’t no place to dream, you drunken skate.
T’ree strikes and out, and still yer’re on de pay roll.
I only wisht I owned dis baseball club;
An’ de first t’ing dat I’d do would be to hitch a can to you
’Bout de size of Lookout Mountain, Mr. Dub.
III.
Say, dat guy playin’ second is a dandy.
Did yer pipe him block dat bingle on de bound?
He’s got Ted Roosevelt double-crossed fur candy
When it comes to swingin’ hard and coverin’ ground;
But de mutt wot went and booted dat last roller--
He’d duck to-night if I but had my wish.
In my time I t’ink I’ve seen a bunch o’ dubs some punkerino,
But dat feller couldn’t ketch contagious fish!
[Illustration: _In vain I looked, but I only saw_
_A hat that was nine feet high or more!_]
A WARNING.
Makers of bonnets the women wear,
Molders of fashion, whoe’er ye be,
Drear is the curse of my daily prayer,
Deep is the hatred I have for thee.
This is the warning I fling afar:
“Mold ’em more on a smaller plan.
Chop off a couple of yards of ‘spar,’
Or beware the wrath of an angry fan.”
Yesteryear to the game I went,
Daily the pilgrimage I made.
O what a waste of coin I spent,
Wondering there how the game was played!
Was it a hit or an error raw?
Was it a stolen base or score?
I peered in vain, but I only saw
A hat that was nine feet wide or more!
Back to the park this spring I passed,
Knowing the old styles out of date.
“Now,” I thought, “I shall get at last
A look once more at the old ‘home plate.’”
Was it a hit or fielding flaw?
Why the deuce did the bleachers roar?
In vain I looked, but I only saw
A hat that was nine feet high or more!
Makers of bonnets the women wear,
Molders of fashion, whoe’er ye be,
Drear is the curse of my daily prayer,
Deep is the hatred I have for thee.
This is the warning I hurl to-day:
“Cut on a narrower, shorter plan;
Chop off a couple of yards each way,
Or beware the wrath of a maddened fan.”
OUT ON THE LINES.
It isn’t so much, “Did you make a hit?” but, “How did you
swing at the ball?”
Did you go up to bat with your nerve all gone and never half try at all?
Did your heart beat strong? Were your eye gleams bright? Did
you swing as it cut the plate?
Or did you stand in a listless way and hit at the ball too late?
It isn’t so much, “Did you score a run?” but, “How did you act on base?”
Did you run it out at the crack of the bat with a rattling, dashing pace?
Did you look for a chance to steal a bag? Did you score by
your own keen wit?
Or did you get all the way around on another fellow’s hit?
It isn’t so much, “Did you win the game?” but, “How did you
play, old scout?”
Did you give ’em a fight to the bitter end and scrap till
the last was out?
Did you let ’em know they were in a game? Did you always come back strong?
Or did you loaf when the game seemed lost, and quit when the
“break” went wrong?
ON MEMORY’S WALL.
Of all the horrible pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,
Is one of a certain ball game
That seemeth the worst of all;
Not for the money wasted,
Counting the coin it cost;
Not that the umpire robbed us,
Not that the home team lost;
Not that the shortstop fumbled
Four balls, while I madly cursed,
Nor the catcher caught like a lobster--
It seemeth to me the worst.
I once had a little sweetheart
With eyes that were deep and dark;
Unto that game I took her
Into the baseball park.
Light as the down of thistles,
The fielders chased the ball;
Loud as the roar of tempests
Followed the rooters’ call;
And I heard my heart beat loudly
As our star man came to bat,
When my little sweetheart murmured:
“Say, _look_ at that woman’s hat!”
Loudly the base hit rattled,
Bringing the tieing score;
Wildly the crowd upstarted,
Yelping a mighty roar;
Softly there came the whisper,
Ending my joyous fit:
“Why is that poor man running?
What is a three-base hit?”
Therefore of all the pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,
That one of a certain ball game
It seemeth the worst of all.
THE GAME.
Let’s play it out--this little game called Life,
Where we are listed for so brief a spell;
Not just to win, amid the tumult rife,
Or where acclaim and gay applauses swell;
Not just to conquer where some one must lose,
Or reach the goal, whatever be the cost:
For there are other, better ways to choose,
Though in the end the battle may be lost.
Let’s play it out, as if it were a sport
Wherein the game is better than the goal,
And never mind the detailed “score’s” report
Of errors made, if each with dauntless soul
But stick it out until the day is done,
Not wasting fairness, for success or fame,
So when the battle has been lost or won
The world at least can say: “He played the Game.”
Let’s play it out--this little game called Work,
Or War or Love or what part each may draw;
Play like a man who scorns to quit or shirk
Because the break may carry some deep flaw;
Nor simply holding that the goal is all
That keeps the player in the contest staying;
But stick it out from curtain rise to fall,
As if the game itself were worth the playing.
MUDVILLE’S FATE.
(Being No. 3 of the Casey series, depicting the sad finish of
Mudville after the celebrated Son of Swat put the township on the
blink by whiffing in the championship game, thus wiping out all
interest in a hitherto thriving baseball center. The pathetic fate
of Mudville afterwards is only equaled by that of the “Deserted
Village,” so aptly doped out by the late O. Goldsmith, “real”
poet.)
I wandered back to Mudville, Tom, where you and I were boys,
And where we drew in days gone by our fill of childish joys;
Alas! the town’s deserted now, and only rank weeds grow
Where mighty Casey fanned the air just twenty years ago.
Remember Billy Woodson’s place, where, in the evening’s shade,
The bunch would gather and discuss the home runs Casey made?
Dog fennel now grows thick around that “joint” we used to know,
Before old Casey whiffed the breeze some twenty years ago.
The grandstand, too, has been torn down; no bleachers met my gaze
Where you and I were wont to sit in happy bygone days;
The peanuts which we fumbled there have sprouted in a row
Where mighty Casey swung in vain just twenty years ago.
O how we used to cheer him, Tom, each time he came to bat!
And how we held our breath in awe when on the plate he spat;
And when he landed on the ball, how loud we yelped! But O
How loud we cursed when he struck out some twenty years ago!
The diamond is a corn patch now; the outfield’s overgrown
With pumpkin vines and weedy plots; the rooters all have flown--
They couldn’t bear to live on there, for nothing was the same
Where they had been so happy once before that fatal game.
The village band disbanded soon; the mayor, too, resigned.
The council even jumped its graft, and in seclusion pined;
The marshal caught the next train out, and those we used to know
Began to leave in flocks and droves some twenty years ago.
For after Casey fanned that day the citizens all left,
And one by one they sought new lands, heartbroken and bereft;
The joyous shout no more rang out of children at their play;
The village blacksmith closed his shop; the druggist moved away.
Alas for Mudville’s vanished pomp when mighty Casey reigned!
Her grandeur has departed now; her glory’s long since waned.
Her place upon the map is lost, and no one seems to care
A whit about the old town now since Casey biffed the air.
A TOAST WORTH WHILE.
Ye may drink if ye will to the star of renown
Who is listed far over the mass,
Who has planted his name on the hallway of fame
At a height which no other can pass.
I will take off my hat to a player like that--
He is worthy of plaudits, I know--
And none can refuse to extend him his dues,
And we’ll bow down to him in a row.
But come; fill your glasses, my lads and my lasses--
A toast as the wine drops run:
“And here’s to the fellow who plays the game and sticks
till the game is done.”
Ye may drink, if ye will, to the brilliant brigade
And the hair-raising chances they take;
To their wonderful stops and their fast-breaking drops,
And the one-handed catches they make.
They are worthy of fame, for they light up the game,
And it’s right that their luster should grow;
And none can refuse to extend them their dues,
And we’ll bow down to them in a row.
Then, ho! fill your glasses, my lads and my lasses--
A toast as the red drops run:
“And here’s to the fellow who plays the game and sticks
till the game is done.”
It doesn’t count much at the tale’s far end
Whether victory cometh or not,
If but early and late we will stand to the plate,
And give ’em the best we have got;
If we’ll keep up the fight till the end is in sight
And never give up, though we tire--
Although out of breath, we’ll “be in at the death”
With a pretty fair lead at the wire.
So up with your glasses, my lads and my lasses--
A toast as the wine drops run:
“And here’s to the fellow who plays the game and sticks
till the game is done.”
THE CHAMPS OF THE ALLEY LEAGUE.
Just at this time every season, when the sun beats down on the street;
When the breath of another springtime comes up with its fragrance sweet;
When the winter league race is over, and the clans of a new campaign
Are camped in the fields of Dixie, cheered on by the fan refrain;
As they talk of a coming pennant or speak of an all-star team
My fancy flies on the south wind, on the crest of an old, old dream,
Back where the eye gleamed brightly, where the soul knew no fatigue,
When I was one of “The Ragged Stars,” the champs of the Alley League.
I hear that the “fever is rising,” that “the great fan flock once more
Is ready to sit in the bleachers and cheer for the winning score;”
They speak of a “coming wonder,” they talk of a “flag to fly,”
They whisper the thrilling story of “Mike and his batting eye;”
But out from the mad fanatics my fancy wanders free
From the hopes of a glad to-morrow to the land of the used-to-be,
Far from the “spit-ball” gossip, far from “McGraw’s intrigue,”
Where I “played first” on “The Ragged Stars,” the champs
of the Alley League.
And what is the mighty Wagner to Mickey, “the Human Slat,”
Who batted around “eight hundred,” with a broomstick for a bat?
Where is the “big league gameness” of stars they have set on thrones
To “Johnny the Jew,” who tied the score with a slide over cobblestones?
“Matthewson’s curves are a mystery,” “Walsh is a wonder, too,”
But Pat Maguire set the “strike-out” mark with a pellet of
“yarn and glue;”
Boast of your Chance and Jennings, winners of keen intrigue;
But they never stacked up with “The Ragged Stars,” the champs
of the Alley League.
Just at this time every season, when the March sun warms the town;
When the little green leaves peep shyly from the stark, bare
limbs of brown;
When the voice of the rooter rises in the roll of a rippling cheer,
The winds of another springtime blow back from another year.
The cry of the barefoot legions, the shouts of the tattered host
As twinkling feet raced madly in a dash for the telephone post,
To a wagon wheel “for second base,” with never a touch of fatigue,
When I was one of “The Ragged Stars,” the champs of the Alley League.
THE MAN WHO PLAYED WITH ANSON ON THE OLD CHICAGO TEAM.
(A case parallel to Eugene Field’s account of “The Man Who Worked
with Dana on the Noo York _Sun_.”)