THE LADDIES’ LEAGUE

The Grown-up Fan, a wealthy man, sat in his grandstand seat,
Gray hair and worry for his head, gout for his puffy feet.
Watching the New York Giants beat the Cincinnati team,
He closed his eyes an instant and he dreamed a lightning dream.
The horsehide spheres changed suddenly to battered ten-cent balls,
And spotless uniforms of white became blue overalls.
Gone were the high-priced athletes with the letters on their breasts;
A lot of urchins showed instead, minus their coats and vests—
No blue-clad umpire ran the game with frown and raucous yell—
The kids just ran the game themselves, and ran it mighty well.
“One Old Cat” and a slivered bat and shanks that scorned fatigue
Were quite the whole equipment in the famous Laddies’ League.

“It’s funny,” said the Grown-up Fan, his vagrant vision o’er,
“But baseball of this high-class type is something of a bore.
Maybe it’s all too flawless as they run the game to-day—
It doesn’t grip me, somehow, like the games we used to play.”
The Grown-up Fan, a worn old man, began his homeward climb
With memories of the Laddies’ League that bars us all in time.

THE $11,000 BEAUTY

Of course, McGraw is always wrong—he never picks a winner.
That’s why the Giant’s backers never have the price for dinner.
His record as a manager is one long trail of blunders—
He always kept the dead ones and he always canned the wonders.
For three long years, with hoots and jeers, the rooters cried: “You boob!
Why don’t you fire this Marquard?” But McGraw stood pat on “Rube.”
McGraw has often kept young chaps when rooters shouted “Sell them!”
He never tells the rooters why, and doesn’t have to tell them.
He doesn’t like a lobster, and, believe me, Alexander,
He wasn’t on a dead one when he kept that big left-hander.
You’ve no idea how many fans called John McGraw a boob
For letting other youngsters go and standing pat on “Rube.”

Rich merchants criticised McGraw in terms that were unkind—
Merchants with lazy shipping clerks and men that robbed them blind.
But Mac just smiled and held his peace. He should have said: “Don’t whine!
Mismanage your own business, boys, and let me manage mine!”
When Matty’s cunning goes at last—all arms in time must tire—
He’ll leave a great successor in the boy Mac wouldn’t fire.