Here’s to the guy that delivers the goods—
Gent from the city or geek from the woods;
Hillside or valley, mountain or plain,
Sunshine or shadow or starlight or rain—
Any old time or condition or place;
Taking it easy or rough-house to face,
But putting it over and calling the bluff—
Here’s looking—the guy who delivers the stuff.
Here’s to the guy that delivers—and, say,
Chop out that dope on the luck of the day;
Fate took a wallop and slipped you the quid?
Well, wotthehell do we care if it did?
That ain’t the tip we are looking for here.
Bend down a minute and lend us an ear,
Geek from the brushes or guy from the town:
Did you deliver? or did you fall down?
THE WINTER LEAGUE WONDER.
Though I’ve never won a pennant in the race that starts each spring,
And the finish every autumn finds me muchly to the “punk;”
Though through June, July, and August you can hear the anvils ring
As the critics in a body dub my team a bunch of “junk,”
You have got to hand it to me on a silver platter when
The summer scramble’s over. Though some other mogul wins,
I’m the one and only wonder of the “coming season” then,
When the last real game is over and the winter league begins.
Though each October finds me under every rival’s heel,
Twenty games behind the others, do I stop and shed a tear?
Not upon your uncle’s portrait. I begin right off the reel
Lining up my winter legions for a “sure first next year.”
I admit “the luck broke badly” and the “umpires crimped my chance,”
I confess to “injured players” and a few less minor sins;
Then I jump out in the open and I do a pennant dance,
When the last real game is over and the winter league begins.
The pitchers I have gathered when the snow begins to fall
Are the wonders of the nation—every one’s a Hurling King;
And my outfield—Holy Whiskers!—how that bunch can hit the ball
When they walk up with the willow from October unto spring!
Every player on my pay roll is a star of purest ray,
Till they reach the field of battle, where they’re slower on their “pins”
Than a stream of cold molasses, and my phenoms fade away—
But you’ve got to hand it to me when the winter league begins.
A TIP TO THE FAN FLOCK.
Did you ever have the feeling you were “all in,” down, and out,
As of mud upon your skylight, or your brain pan had the gout?
When you sauntered to your office in a semi-hearted way
And earned about one-seventh of your wage or daily pay?
When your energy had left you and your dizzy dome would throb
As you spent the day in yawning or four-flushing on your job?
Well, you have if you are human; so while out among the crowd
In the grandstand or the bleachers, shouting curses long and loud
At some “boot” or costly bobble, let the old dope trickle through
That perhaps the second baseman has the same old feeling too.
While sparring with the cash book or the ledger in your den,
Don’t you feel a brain-storm blowing in your noodle now and then?
When the numbers dance around you, while you’re ripping, raving mad
That the pesky, peevish figures of the column fail to add?
When your orbs feel dry and blinky, and the harder that you look,
All the more the figures jumble on the pages of your book?
It’s a cinch you’ve had the feeling; so before you seek the gore
Of some indicator wielder whose decisions blocked a score,
Stop and figure for a second; let the old dope trickle through
That the umpire is entitled to his little off-day too.