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: