Of all the horrible pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,
Is one of a certain ball game
That seemeth the worst of all;
Not for the money wasted,
Counting the coin it cost;
Not that the umpire robbed us,
Not that the home team lost;
Not that the shortstop fumbled
Four balls, while I madly cursed,
Nor the catcher caught like a lobster—
It seemeth to me the worst.
I once had a little sweetheart
With eyes that were deep and dark;
Unto that game I took her
Into the baseball park.
Light as the down of thistles,
The fielders chased the ball;
Loud as the roar of tempests
Followed the rooters’ call;
And I heard my heart beat loudly
As our star man came to bat,
When my little sweetheart murmured:
“Say, look at that woman’s hat!”
Loudly the base hit rattled,
Bringing the tieing score;
Wildly the crowd upstarted,
Yelping a mighty roar;
Softly there came the whisper,
Ending my joyous fit:
“Why is that poor man running?
What is a three-base hit?”
Therefore of all the pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,
That one of a certain ball game
It seemeth the worst of all.
THE GAME.
Let’s play it out—this little game called Life,
Where we are listed for so brief a spell;
Not just to win, amid the tumult rife,
Or where acclaim and gay applauses swell;
Not just to conquer where some one must lose,
Or reach the goal, whatever be the cost:
For there are other, better ways to choose,
Though in the end the battle may be lost.
Let’s play it out, as if it were a sport
Wherein the game is better than the goal,
And never mind the detailed “score’s” report
Of errors made, if each with dauntless soul
But stick it out until the day is done,
Not wasting fairness, for success or fame,
So when the battle has been lost or won
The world at least can say: “He played the Game.”
Let’s play it out—this little game called Work,
Or War or Love or what part each may draw;
Play like a man who scorns to quit or shirk
Because the break may carry some deep flaw;
Nor simply holding that the goal is all
That keeps the player in the contest staying;
But stick it out from curtain rise to fall,
As if the game itself were worth the playing.
MUDVILLE’S FATE.
(Being No. 3 of the Casey series, depicting the sad finish of Mudville after the celebrated Son of Swat put the township on the blink by whiffing in the championship game, thus wiping out all interest in a hitherto thriving baseball center. The pathetic fate of Mudville afterwards is only equaled by that of the “Deserted Village,” so aptly doped out by the late O. Goldsmith, “real” poet.)
I wandered back to Mudville, Tom, where you and I were boys,
And where we drew in days gone by our fill of childish joys;
Alas! the town’s deserted now, and only rank weeds grow
Where mighty Casey fanned the air just twenty years ago.