Base-Ball Ballads
BASE-BALL
BALLADS
By GRANTLAND RICE
Sporting Editor the Nashville Tennessean
Illustrated by C. H. WELLINGTON
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.
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But in some way it has struck us that the theme is out of date,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.
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!”