Base-ball Ballads

by Grantland Rice

Mulligan “catches the ball on the snout;”
It’s just where he likes it; he smashes it out.
Biff—on the trade-mark—it whirls like a shot;
They’re yelling and cheering all over the lot.
A shout, then a groan from the well-crowded stands;
The drive travels straight to the outfielder’s hands.
Two feet to the left or two feet to the right
And Mulligan’s swat would have captured the fight.
Just a matter of inches from out of the line
Changed him from a “star” to a “mutt” and a “shine.”
Just two stingy feet—aye, there is the rub—
He didn’t hit safe, so they called him a dub.

Pat Flaherty gets one that isn’t his kind,
But he closes his orbs and he swings at it blind.
’Twas a weak-sister swat and not one-half as stout
As the one which poor Mulligan “slammed on the snout.”
Yet the bleachers arose with a yelp and a screech
As it twisted just out of an infielder’s reach.
It broke up the game, and yet only two feet
Closer in and the tap would have been easy meat;
Just a matter of inches—a bit farther down—
Changed him from a “dub” to a “star” of renown;
Just two pesky feet, but it ended the game,
So they plastered a new-made cigar with his name.

You’ll find it the same upon life’s massive chart—
The “star” and the “dub” are but inches apart.
One smashes out hard, but his drive never lands,
As it travels direct to another one’s hands.
The next fellow’s effort is puny and tame,
But it hits the right spot and so gathers him fame.
It’s the lore of the age from the centuries brought:
“The bunt may roll safe, while the hard smash is caught.”
You may strive twice as hard for the rich prize at stake,
But the fellow that wins is the one “with the break.”

THE GRAND OLD WINTER LEAGUE.

Here’s to the league where they all hit three hundred;
Here’s to the league where they all bag the flag;
Here’s to the wonderful, mighty, and thunderful
Swat of the artist who’s springing the gag—
Springing the gag while the old stove is roaring,
Spieling of games that he won in the pinch;
Fence-breaking hammerer, clean-’em-up slammerer,
Where every pitcher he faced was a cinch.

Here’s to the league where they’ve all cinched the pennant—
Cinched with a line-up that’s keen on the job;
Where in the bingtime of oncoming springtime
Every guy signed is a “second Ty Cobb.”
Hail to the Wagners and dashing young Matthewsons—
There with the speed and the curves and control;
Swift-footed, heady, keen-eyed, and steady,
Already sewing the flag to the pole.

Here’s to the league where the hapless tail-ender
Rises each year to the crest of the game;
Where there is never an artist unclever,
Never a star that is injured or lame;
Where for a spell all the umpires are honest,
Where every mogul has shown keen intrigue;
Hip for the dope from the circuit of hope,
Hail to the glorious Typewriter League!

THE SLIDE OF PAUL REVERE.

Listen, fanatics, and you shall hear
Of the midnight slide of Paul Revere;
How he scored from first on an outfield drive
By a dashing sprint and a headlong dive—
’Twas the greatest play pulled off that year.

Now the home of poets and potted beans,
Of Emersonian ways and means
In baseball epic has oft been sung
Since the days of Criger and old Cy Young;
But not even fleet, deer-footed Bay
Could have pulled off any such fancy play
As the slide of P. Revere, which won
The famous battle of Lexington.