Where is Pat Kelly, the slabman, who swore he had pitched his last ball?
Who tore up his contract and said with a roar he “was finished for good and for all.”
When the Giants all meet at the depot, in vain Mr. Kelly they seek,
But they find on arriving in Texas that Pat has already been there a week.
“This dope I give out’s on the level,” said Mike in a hot interview.
“Just make it as strong as the paper will stand. I will never come back; I am through.”
But when they arrived at the station, when the train to the training camp led,
They had to tie Mike to a telegraph pole to keep him from running ahead.
There is gloom in the camp of the Pirates—the Giants throw a fit of alarm,
For Matty and Wagner and Tenny have quit to take up a job on the farm.
But it’s queer when you turn to the line-up at the “Opening Chorus of Bing,”
That the first guys to quit on the diamond each fall are the first ones at bat in the spring.
THE SONG OF THE BASE HIT.
A twist, a whirl, and a sudden jar,
And off from the bat to the field afar—
Off like the shot from a ten-inch gun,
A gray-white streak through the slanting sun
I soar away
Through a summer’s day
Where the frantic fielders of the fray,
With dervish dance
And anguished glance,
Come whirling in to cop me;
But I glide between
With a mocking mien,
And there is none to stop me.
A shout, a roar, and a ringing cheer,
And on my way through the atmosphere
I leap to the light where clenched hands grip
As wild eyes watch me fly or skip
Through open space
In headlong race,
As the joy of the ages lights each face
And pulses jump
With a vibrant thump
As the sky reels from the roar,
And the rafters ring
With the song I sing
To the tune of the winning score!
The song I sing is the sweetest song
Or the saddest note to the waiting throng
That the world has known through the ages dim—
With keener lilt than a battle hymn,
For my refrain
Brings joy and pain,
Where lost hopes rise and fond hopes wane,
And in my path
Sweeps a city’s wrath
Or a city’s wild acclaim,
And the planet’s ring
With the song I sing—
The song of a nation’s game!
ON THE ROAD TO ROOTERS’ ROW.
(Letting Mr. Kipling in, of course, on a bit of the graft.)
I.
In each long-deserted ball park from New York to Tennessee
There’s the whisper of an echo wafted forth to you and me;
For the wind calls through the pine trees and the maples, soft and low:
“Come ye back, ye wild Fanatic—come ye back to Rooters’ Row.”