“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.