That’s the only job for you; take our tip now, Theodore;
Think of how your pulse will leap when you hear the angry roar.
There your nerve can have full play; you will find the action there
Which you’ve hunted for in vain from your Presidential chair.
Chasing Afric lions and such, catching grizzlies will seem tame
Lined up with the jolt you’ll get in the thick of some hard game.
Choking hungry wolves to death as a sport will stack up raw
When you see Kid Elberfield swinging for your under jaw.
When you hear Hugh Jennings roar, “Call them strikes, you lump of cheese!”
Or McGraw comes rushing out, kicking at your shins and knees;
When the bleachers stand and shout, “Robber, liar, thief, and dub!”
You’ll be sorry for the gents in your Ananias Club.
You’ll find it’s a different thing from making peace with old Japan
Than when you’ve called a strike on O’Conner or McGann.
Holding California back isn’t quite the same, I’ll state,
As is calling Devlin out on a close one at the plate.
Though I’ve hunted far and near, there is nothing else to do
Where you’ll get what’s coming, Ted, all that’s coming unto you.
You should be an umpire, Ted; and I’ll bet two weeks would be
Quite enough to curb your rash, headlong stren-u-os-i-tee.
THE SHOCK.
(From “The Revery of an Umpire,” with apologies to Ben King’s “Ghost.”)
If I should die to-night,
And as with folded arms in death I lay,
Arrayed in shrouds of linen pure and white,
Some rooter should bend over me and say,
“Old boy, I’m sorry that you’re down and out;
I hope you’ll get to heaven, for you’re square;
I’ve seen you umpire many a hard-fought bout
Without one bum decision, I can swear—”
If he said that,
Although my soul was even then a spook,
I’d rise at once in my large, white cravat,
To get one look at him, one final look;
I’d make him pass me out that dope once more,
The same quaint words that he had used before.
Yes, I’d rise up till he was done, and then—
I’d drop back dead again.
WHEN “WIFEY” READS DOPE.
Seated at the breakfast table on a sultry summer’s day,
Mrs. Smith picked up the paper in a careless, idle way,
Threw her lamps on social items, noted quickly up and down
Names of lucky, favored people who had blown away from town
In this steamy August weather, till at last her restless glance
Fell upon the sporting section, and she lingered in a trance.
Mr. Smith was eating bacon—which the same, as you should know,
Is a widespread breakfast fodder anywhere you choose to go—
And his jaw was working deftly, like the handle of a pump,
When he heard an exclamation from his wife that made him jump.
“What’s the matter?” he responded; with his appetite well sated.
“Why those frowns upon your forehead? Why those eyeballs so dilated?”