VII.
So moves life’s game wherever we may go;
At every base some umpire stands and waits—
A delegate shipped earthward by the fates—
Who has it in for players here below.
We drive one safe inside three feet or so;
The robber umpire struts around and states
That “it went foul.” We know his eyes ain’t mates;
But “foul” it stands, and so the score books go.
But I ain’t through. Perhaps in nineteen eight,
If I can act like Tyrus Cobb at bat,
I’ll get a chance to sign a running mate
And pitch my park within a two-room flat.
Five thousand per might clear her old man’s vision
And make him change that other bum decision.
AT THE END OF THE GAME.
When I have heard the Final Umpire’s call
Ring out across the diamond of my strife
That ends the little game which we call life,
I shall not care about the score at all,
How well I fielded, how I hit the ball;
Nor all the cheering and the tumult rife,
Nor shouts of scorn that once cut like a knife—
These shall not matter in the endless pall;
These shall not matter on that final day
When life’s game passes with the setting sun,
If I but hear the Mighty Umpire say:
“The records show no pennant you have won,
No brilliant average that brings you fame;
Yet you go up, because ‘you played the game.’”
“Come, enter quick,” St. Peter then replied;
“Heaven’s joys to such as you are not denied.”
THE MOGUL’S DREAM.
(With apologies to “The Actor’s Dream.”)
One night a mogul died, and straight his soul
Set forth upon its journey to the goal
Of all good people. But the gate was locked;
So while he shivered in the cold, he knocked—
Not once, but twice—he rapped with all his might
Upon the pearly entrance, barred and tight.
“Who comes,” St. Peter cried, “with all that din?”
“It’s me,” the magnate cried. “Please let me in.”
“And who are you,” he heard the good saint say,
“That you should hear the golden harps, I pray?
What have you done upon that earth so drear,
That you should mingle with the angels here?”
“I was the manager,” he straight replied—
“The mogul of a ball team ere I died.”
“And what means that,” replied the saint, “pray tell?”
“It means that all you ever get is—well,
I won’t repeat the word I had in mind;
And yet no other fits that I can find.
Through fall and winter every year I plan
To gather in a pennant-winning clan;
I labor hard from early morn till night
In search of talent anywhere in sight;
Right off the reel, my pitchers one by one
Blow up, and then my catchers are undone;
And for my trouble, what get I in thanks?
The fiendish yelp of twenty thousand cranks.
My life was one of fiendish, piercing woe,
The roughest on that unkempt plain below;
Aye, to the full I’ve drunk life’s bitter dregs—
Hissed, jeered at, pelted with decrepit eggs.
And to what end I come back in the spring?
Only to hear the anvil chorus ring.”
L’Envoi.
“Come, enter quick,” St. Peter then replied;
“Heaven’s joys to such as you are not denied;
Choose any harp among these scenes of mirth.
O HAPLESS SOUL, YOU HAD YOUR HELL ON EARTH!”
HARD-LUCK ADAM.
Adam had no Easter hat to buy for Mrs. Eve;
Adam had no “cost-of-living” troubles to aggrieve;
Adam had no job to hold by slaving day or night,
Adding columns, beating carpets, planning stuff to write.
Adam had a hectic cinch, played across the boards—
Everything that nature and an idle life affords.
And yet I wouldn’t change with him, whatever be my loss:
He never saw a triple drive the winning run across.
Adam had no dress to buy to calm his spouse’s grief
(All that Adam had to do was go and pull a leaf).
Back in Father Adam’s day, long and long ago,
There was not an Aldrich nor a crusty Uncle Joe;
Raving politicians never roamed about the land,
Double-crossing voters in a way to beat the band.
But with it all poor Adam never had a chance to dream
Of bold three-hundred hitters and a pennant-winning team.
Adam lived on Easy Street, dreaming in the sun;
Never a policeman there to cut in on his fun;
Never had a cook around threatening to leave;
“Bridge” was not invented in the days of Mrs. Eve.
Take it up and down the line in those golden days,
Adam had it on us in a hundred different ways;
And yet with all his blessings, what a dull and massive pall—
For poor old Father Adam never saw a game of ball!
DENTON (CY) YOUNG.
(The Grand Old Man of Balldom faces his twentieth season as a major league slabman with every indication that it will be among his best campaigns.)
Fame may be fleeting and glory may fade;
Life at its best is a breath on the gale.
One hero passes, another is made;
New stars arise as the old one sets pale.
So when a stalwart steps out from the throng,
On with the tribute, let garlands be flung.
Here’s to the sturdy and here’s to the strong;
Here’s to the king of them all, Denton Young.
Anson has passed like a star in the night;
Richardson’s name from the line-up is cast;
Rusie and Latham are out of the fight;
Mighty Buck Ewing is buried and passed;
Clarkson the wizard, and Kelly and Gore
Linger no more on the fan’s fickle tongue.
Only one name flashes out as of yore—
There on the red line of battle is Young.
Tiernan and Tucker? We wait for reply.
Jack Ward and Pfeffer are out of the game;
No cheer arises when Brouthers steps by;
Even Van Haltren is only a name;
Meekin and Hoffer and “Kind Bid” McPhee—
Their day is over, their songs are all sung.
Lo! like the roar of the storm-harried sea
Swells the wild chorus for Denton (Cy) Young.
Herman Long’s only a memory now;
Big Del is under the myrtle to-day—
No more the laurel is bound to his brow;
Bob Lowe and Zimmer have passed from the fray.
Where are the heroes saluted of old—
Heroes to whom through the years we have clung?
Have all deserted the Clan of the Bold?
Not while the echoes are ringing for Young.
Breitenstein, Phillips, and Weyhing and Nops,
Hahn, Rhines, and Corbett and Dr. McJames—
Where are their shoots and their puzzling drops?
Who cheers to-day when you mention their names?
Lost in the shadows, their story is told;
On memory’s ramparts their pictures are hung;
But here in the lime light, as great as of old,
Looms up the stalwart—the only Cy Young.
Where is the mighty Dalrymple to-day?
Miller and Denny and “Cuppy the Sly?”
Show me their names in the line-up, I pray.
Vainly I wait for an answering cry.
Few of us stand to the guns through the years;
One at a time from the heights we are flung.
Heroes soon pass in this Valley of Tears;
But here’s to the king of them all—Denton Young.
THE UMP’S MIDWINTER DREAM.
It was a sunny day in spring;
The warbling birds were all a-wing;
An April sky of azure hue
Enchanted the fanatic’s view,
And sultry was the atmosphere
Upon the first game of the year.
Upon the field His Umps appeared,
And, lo! the throng arose and cheered,
While all around the fife and drums
Played “Hail! the Conquering Hero Comes.”
The game began, and to the plate
The first man wandered up, sedate;
“Strike one, strike two, strike three—you’re out!”
The umpire waited for the shout
Of rage from all around, but not
A murmur bubbled from the lot;
The player bowed and walked away,
Without another word to say;
Nor paused, with language somewhat free
Impugning his ancestral tree.
Nobody had a kick to make,
However costly his mistake;
And when a foul tip off the bat
Came hurling by and knocked him flat,
In sympathy the bleachers sat
With saddened hearts and tear-dimmed eyes,
Until once more they saw him rise.
He was to player and to fan
A scholar and a gentleman,
While every paper in the land
Was boosting him to “beat the band.”
And then in joy he gave a shout,
And woke to FIND HIS PIPE WAS OUT!
A REAL JOB FOR TEDDY.
Teddy, when your work is through in the Presidential chair;
When another takes the shift where you’ve learned to do and dare,
You will need another job—one that’s a monstrosity,
That will soak up, day by day, all your strenuosity.
It must be a husky job, full of smoke and fire to boot;
And in looking round I’ve found only one I know will suit,
Only one where your big stick will be needed day by day;
Only one to fit in, Ted, with your rough-and-tumble way;
Only one where in the end you will some day long for rest,
Where your energy will wane and your spirit be depressed.
You will find it different from any “nature-faking” fuss;
You will find it harder than mauling up the Octopus.
It will be a rougher job than a charge up San Juan Hill,
Or a battle with the trusts—it will take a stronger will.
Fighting predatory wealth of the kings of high finance,
Calling railroad moguls down will not be a circumstance.
All in all, ’twill suit you fine. Never having been afraid
Of aught else upon this earth, you should be an umpire, Ted!
That’s the only job for you; take our tip now, Theodore;
Think of how your pulse will leap when you hear the angry roar.
There your nerve can have full play; you will find the action there
Which you’ve hunted for in vain from your Presidential chair.
Chasing Afric lions and such, catching grizzlies will seem tame
Lined up with the jolt you’ll get in the thick of some hard game.
Choking hungry wolves to death as a sport will stack up raw
When you see Kid Elberfield swinging for your under jaw.
When you hear Hugh Jennings roar, “Call them strikes, you lump of cheese!”
Or McGraw comes rushing out, kicking at your shins and knees;
When the bleachers stand and shout, “Robber, liar, thief, and dub!”
You’ll be sorry for the gents in your Ananias Club.
You’ll find it’s a different thing from making peace with old Japan
Than when you’ve called a strike on O’Conner or McGann.
Holding California back isn’t quite the same, I’ll state,
As is calling Devlin out on a close one at the plate.
Though I’ve hunted far and near, there is nothing else to do
Where you’ll get what’s coming, Ted, all that’s coming unto you.
You should be an umpire, Ted; and I’ll bet two weeks would be
Quite enough to curb your rash, headlong stren-u-os-i-tee.
THE SHOCK.
(From “The Revery of an Umpire,” with apologies to Ben King’s “Ghost.”)
If I should die to-night,
And as with folded arms in death I lay,
Arrayed in shrouds of linen pure and white,
Some rooter should bend over me and say,
“Old boy, I’m sorry that you’re down and out;
I hope you’ll get to heaven, for you’re square;
I’ve seen you umpire many a hard-fought bout
Without one bum decision, I can swear—”
If he said that,
Although my soul was even then a spook,
I’d rise at once in my large, white cravat,
To get one look at him, one final look;
I’d make him pass me out that dope once more,
The same quaint words that he had used before.
Yes, I’d rise up till he was done, and then—
I’d drop back dead again.
WHEN “WIFEY” READS DOPE.
Seated at the breakfast table on a sultry summer’s day,
Mrs. Smith picked up the paper in a careless, idle way,
Threw her lamps on social items, noted quickly up and down
Names of lucky, favored people who had blown away from town
In this steamy August weather, till at last her restless glance
Fell upon the sporting section, and she lingered in a trance.
Mr. Smith was eating bacon—which the same, as you should know,
Is a widespread breakfast fodder anywhere you choose to go—
And his jaw was working deftly, like the handle of a pump,
When he heard an exclamation from his wife that made him jump.
“What’s the matter?” he responded; with his appetite well sated.
“Why those frowns upon your forehead? Why those eyeballs so dilated?”
“Tell me this,” she said and shuddered, “tell me what this means, I pray:
‘Nothing but the gallant playing of Mike Johnson saved the day.
With the score tied in the seventh, and the combat gliding by,
Mike dashed out, and by fast sprinting swallowed Piggy Jones’ long fly.’”
“Good for Mike,” her husband answered. “He’s the goods—I always knew it.”
“Swallowed Jones’s fly?” she murmured. “Tell me how the man could do it!”
Then she read: “With mighty bludgeons in their mitts, the demon Sox
Hopped on Waddell in the pinches, hammered him out of the box,
Shot him full of poisoned arrows, drove him to the uncut woods,
Walloped all the wadding from him—for he didn’t have the goods.”
“This is awful,” said she, frowning. “Why should he have drawn a beating?”
But her husband only snickered, and again turned to his eating.
“Look at this,” she stammered, paling: “‘Hahn got bumped upon the bean;
Umpire Sheridan’s decisions threw a smell like gasoline;
Jones was punctured in the lattice; Walsh’s benders broke their backs—
For they couldn’t even hit him with a shotgun or an ax.’
Baseball must be very wicked,” said she with puzzled face.
“Yes, it’s hell,” her husband answered, “when your team ain’t in the race.”
A HARD-LUCK YARN.
While reposin’ one day in me leisurely way, a-puffin’ a wicked cheroot,
I happens to spy with a glance of me eye a gent in a major league suit.
“I know who ye are—you’re a major league star,” says I, “or you once used to be.”
“Well, jigger me neck, but your dope is correck,” was the answer he handed to me.
And he mutters, says he: “I’ve a story for ye
Which I want ye to put in the paper for me.
’Twas quite a while back, if me dope is exack, when I was a bloomin’ recruit;
I had just busted in from a minor league bin, with a try at a major league suit,
When the followin’ tale, which will make you turn pale, happened one day to me in a game;
And I think you’ll agree when you hear it from me, that I wasn’t hardly to blame.
’Twas the opening fray of the season that day, and the bases was full as a goat;
And the pitcher he smiled in a manner which riled as I swallowed a lump in me throat;
And he winged one across with a deft, easy toss, and it bubbled along at me waist;
And I swung till me back give a horrible crack, but I give it a terrible paist.
That ball riz and sailed till the people all paled, when it turned to a vanishin’ speck;
And me hands was swelled up like a fat, poisoned pup, while the bat I used was a wreck.
Clean over the ocean, like lightnin’ in motion, it whizzled and whistled and whirled;
Over China, Japan, it bounded and ran, till it traveled the length of the world.
With a most vicious swipe it dismantled the pipe in the mouth of King Edward at tea;
Then it veered to the Rhine, where it busted a stein which der Kaiser was holdin’, you see;
And it give quite a jar to the badly scared Czar when it toppled his throne to the ground;
But it went on its way with the speed of H. Bay, with a hop and a skip and a bound.
That night, with a sigh and a tear in his eye, the captain give me my release;
For the President wired that I had to be fired for the good of the country and peace.
‘He hits ’em too hard and too fur from the yard,’ was the message the President sent.
‘He has raised complications with neighborly nations; and I am a peaceable gent.’
So they turned me adrift and I give up my shift; and that’s why I’m out of the game.
I was too bloomin’ good, or I’m certain I would have acquired quite a notable name.”
A FAN’S DIARY.
(March Fifteenth.)
We have the greatest team this year beneath the shining sun.
I’ve studied up the dope on them, yes, every blooming one.
Our fielders are spectacular; and you will throw a fit
When you discover how this bunch can play the game and hit.
Our manager, Mike Johnson, is the only one best bet;
He knows exactly what to do, and what new men to get.
They say he is a wonder at developing a team;
And on the side he always has some pennant-winning scheme.
Jack Smith’s a star at second base, while Jones is great at third;
Young Riley is a Matthewson, and Jackson is a bird;
You’ll never find a better pair upon the firing line—
The very ones to give this town a pennant-winning nine.
There’s no more use in talking, we have got the old flag cinched;
I can see that banner waving, with the pennant good as pinched.
Right from the start it looks to me a runaway this year;
I hope we don’t break up the race (this is my only fear).
(April Fifteenth.)
Hurrah! The season’s started—the opening game’s to-day!
The fans are swarming to the park to see our heroes play;
The whole darn town is turning out, to get in on the fun
And cheer the team that has the flag already good as won.
They have a silver loving cup for Johnson, and a cane
For every other player—O, they’re raving, wild, insane!
They’re cheering like Comanches, all impatient for the fray,
To see our team jump in and take the lead on opening day.
(May Fifteenth.)
Cheer up, the race ain’t over yet, although our prospect’s frayed.
What matter if the team has dropped the first twelve games they’ve played?
It makes no difference, rooters, that we’re on the bottom rung;
Remember, fans, before you knock, the season’s very young.
(June Fifteenth.)
Say, Johnson, fire that Riley; he’s a lemon through and through.
Who told you Smith could play the game? And Jones is rotten too.
Can that big dub Jackson NOW, and throw him off the nine;
The infield you have signed for us is something of a shine.
(July First.)
I’ve seen some awful yellow teams in my day, I’ll admit;
But say, this bunch can’t catch a cold; they neither field nor hit.
Say, this is on the level: I could not believe my eyes
The day I saw that outfield squad drop fourteen easy flies.
When a shortstop makes twelve errors in one game, he’s getting stale;
The time has come to ride him out of town upon a rail;
And when a pitcher passes up a dozen men per game,
I wouldn’t like to say it, but I KNOW his proper name.
(July Fifteenth.)
Say, fire that Johnson right away, you guys that own the club;
He’s nothing but a wooden-headed, drunken, brainless dub.
He’s a holy show as manager, as I said from the first;
You’ve got to hand it to him as the one and only worst.
(October First.)
Hurrah! the season’s over, and I’m glad the race is past.
I know we finished in the rut this year, a hopeless last.
We didn’t do a blooming thing but hit the chutes and slump;
But NEXT year keep your eye on us—we’ll be there from the jump.
GAME CALLED.
“Game called”—across the field of play
The dusk has come, the hour is late;
The fight is done and, lost or won,
The player files out through the gate;
The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,
The stands are bare, the park is still;
But through the night there shines the light
Of Home beyond the silent hill.
“Game called”—where in the golden light
The bugle rolled the reveille,
The shadows creep where night falls deep
And taps has called the end of play;
The game is done, the score is in,
The final cheer and jeer have passed,
But in the night beyond the fight
The player finds his rest at last.
“Game called”—upon the field of life
The darkness gathers, far and wide;
The dream is done, the score is spun
That stands forever in the guide;
Nor victory, nor yet defeat
Is chalked against the player’s name,
But down the roll the final scroll
Shows only “how he played the game.”