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!