VI.
Much like the mutt with home plate well in sight,
Who sprints on in with long, stake-winning stride,
Bringing the tying run with bulging pride;
As hope once more soars upward, like a kite
Who thinks he’s got it beat all right, all right;
While thousands clamor: “Hit the dirt, there—slide!”
When over all the tumult, far and wide,
The umpire shrieks, “You’re out!” in mad delight.
So I got mine in true O’Loughlin style:
Just when I thought the game would be a tie
Her old man yelled, “You’re out about a mile,”
And waved me back with murder in his eyes.
“I’m acting umpire in this park,” says he;
“So don’t you pass no funny talk with me.”
VII.
So moves life’s game wherever we may go;
At every base some umpire stands and waits—
A delegate shipped earthward by the fates—
Who has it in for players here below.
We drive one safe inside three feet or so;
The robber umpire struts around and states
That “it went foul.” We know his eyes ain’t mates;
But “foul” it stands, and so the score books go.
But I ain’t through. Perhaps in nineteen eight,
If I can act like Tyrus Cobb at bat,
I’ll get a chance to sign a running mate
And pitch my park within a two-room flat.
Five thousand per might clear her old man’s vision
And make him change that other bum decision.
AT THE END OF THE GAME.
When I have heard the Final Umpire’s call
Ring out across the diamond of my strife
That ends the little game which we call life,
I shall not care about the score at all,
How well I fielded, how I hit the ball;
Nor all the cheering and the tumult rife,
Nor shouts of scorn that once cut like a knife—
These shall not matter in the endless pall;
These shall not matter on that final day
When life’s game passes with the setting sun,
If I but hear the Mighty Umpire say:
“The records show no pennant you have won,
No brilliant average that brings you fame;
Yet you go up, because ‘you played the game.’”
