Right Off The Bat — The Umpire's Home - The Longest Hit on Record - "Yellow" - The Umpire - "Choosing Sides" - Ode To a Georgia Gent - Life and Baseball - What Happened To Hilo - I Was With Clarke

_Yes, the longest hit on record was a hit by Dan O'Shay, When the Bankers played the Brokers, just five years ago to-day.

_ THE UMPIRE'S HOME

Where does an umpire live?

You ask me that?

Come, I will take you to an umpire's flat.

Ah!

Here we are!

'Tis five flights up, behind;

Umpires are used to hiding--they don't mind.

This is the entrance.

It's a bachelor's den, For umpires aren't often married men.

The owner's not at home, but come with me;

I know him well and have an extra key.

This is the library; note well the books, Dingy and dismal, like the umpire's looks.

"Lives of the Martyrs," "The Deserted Home," "Dante's Inferno," "Rise and Fall of Rome."

"Paradise Lost," "The Sinking of the Maine," "Ballad of Reading Gaol," and "Souls in Pain."

"The Death of Joan of Arc," "The Convict's Woe," And all the works of Edgar Allen Poe.

This is the dining room, all done in black, With rugs of drab and tapestries of sack Notice the mottoes on the gloomy walls: "Drink to the countless strikes that I called balls," "A toast to all the close ones that I miss," "A curse upon the man who loves to hiss!"

Where does an umpire live?

You ask me that?

Well, I have shown you through an umpire's flat.

"YELLOW" He wasn't a strong looking fellow, And roughnecks played ball in those days;

The ballgamers christened him "Yellow" Because of his mild, timid ways.

Red Flynn slapped his face to a whisper One day when he missed a fly ball, And his jaw almost broke when he got a swell soak From the fist of Outfielder McCall.

I used to feel sorry for "Yellow," The gang made his life one long moan.

He wasn't a strong looking fellow, They ought to have let him alone.

I've found, in my baseball excursions, From Maine to the parks way out West, That the players who win and draw down the tin, Are the players who throw out the chest.

But courage is courage, I reckon;

It's hard to explain, but it's true;

And sometimes a fellow that people call yellow Turns out to be brave and true blue.

One day when a hit meant a pennant Our "Yellow" came up to the bat;

Did he quit in the pinch?

Did he falter and flinch?

Sure he did.

He struck out like a rat!

THE UMPIRE

He was tall and rugged and coated with tan, He asked no odds and he feared no man.

When he shouted "Strike!"

or yelped "Ball Two!"

You can wager it went, and went clear through.

Seldom he argued, and never he fined The player who cursed or the player who whined, But he ran the game from beginning to end, Knew no mercy and feared no friend.

Six years in the league he remained the same, Sneering at kickers and bossing the game, Snapping at roughnecks who made foolish howls, Slapping them, sometimes, fair on the jowls;

Taking no talk, always making good, He ran the game as an umpire should, Till every paper and every fan Allowed that Flynn was a fearless man.

Flynn weighed two hundred, ringside weight, His sweet little wife weighed a hundred and eight;

But when he finished the daily game And home to his small apartment came It was "Mike, you're late!"

and "Stay in the flat!"

"Mike, do this!"

and "Mike, do that!"

'Twas surely a shame, and almost a sin, The way that she bullied the fearless Flynn.

* * * Kipling knew nothing concerning the Flynns When he wrote about "bearing the yoke."

A woman is only a woman, perhaps, But an umpire's only a joke.

"CHOOSING SIDES" Baseball, they say, has changed a heap; I guess it has, in spots, And yet I liked it better when we played it on the lots.

There were no signs for "hit and run," no dazzling "fadeaways";

We had no high-priced managers to tell us fancy plays.

No, we were just a lot of kids, with tanned and freckled hides;

There were no concrete grand stands when we played at "choosing sides."

I saw a ball game yesterday, and o'er a brass band's blare The cheers of thirty thousand fans were soaring through the air.

The turnstiles had been clicking for three solid golden hours, Recording wealth and profit for the big league baseball powers.

How soon we lose our play days!

How swiftly childhood glides!

There were no clicking turnstiles when we played at "choosing sides."

The captains used to toss a bat, and then, hand over hand-- But why repeat a story every boy must understand?

Then came the careful picking--"I'll take Reddy."

"Give me Flynn."

"I'll choose you, Skinny Murphy."

"I'll take you, Pat McGinn."

They picked the live ones first, of course, and finished with the snides;

Feelings were often ruffled when we played at "choosing sides."

Dear reader, you'll remember, if you peek into the past, The little four-eyed fellow that was always chosen last.

The little weak-kneed urchin that the captain would ignore Until he found by counting, that he needed one man more.

He couldn't bat, he couldn't field, and yet that shrimp to-day Is making laws in Congress, while his captain drives a dray.

ODE TO A GEORGIA GENT

A shudder ran around Forbes Field When Tyrus Cobb stole home.

The brain of Honus Wagner reeled When Tyrus Cobb stole home.

Manager Clarke his temples clasped, The Pirate rooters simply gasped-- Their tenderest feelings had been rasped When Tyrus Cobb stole home.

The Pirate pitcher's heart stood still When Tyrus Cobb stole home.

Gibson, the catcher, had a chill When Tyrus Cobb stole home.

Large gobs of smoke began to crawl Across the ball yard, like a pall, And gloom was brooding over all When Tyrus Cobb stole home.

The rooters from Detroit went mad When Tyrus Cobb stole home.

A very pleasant time was had When Tyrus Cobb stole home.

Small wonder that they shouted so;

In Hughey Jennings's town, we know, The burglar list is sure to grow Since Tyrus Cobb stole home.

LIFE AND BASEBALL

Winter howled around the corners of the old-time grocery store, Where the baseball star was sitting, giving out his baseball lore.

Every day he told the neighbors in his little Western town How he hit the curves of Matty and the shoots of Miner Brown.

"No, I ain't signed up this season," he would tell the gaping throng, "And I won't sign boys, believe me, till the check looks good and strong.

John T. Brush knows where to find me, and he knows I'll play the game When I get a good fat contract"--but the contract never came.

"Maybe I'll go South to Texas," said a gawky young recruit, "If the contract that they send me names a salary that will suit.

Why, they're crazy for new talent; all the papers tell me so, And your little Uncle Dudley isn't out to skip the dough.

I can play that third sack, fellows, just as well as Devlin can, And I won't take half a paycheck, when I'm every inch a man.

When I get my kind of contract, I'll jump out and grab the fame, Not till then will I get busy"--but the contract never came.

Life is but a game of baseball, with its players everywhere;

Some are sulking in their wigwams, some are out to do and dare.

Some are working, working, working, turning labor into fun;

Others talk of future conquests, and depart with nothing done.

Far beyond the clouds and sunlight dwells a magnate wondrous kind, With a million, million contracts always waiting to be signed.

Yours, my friend, the task of trying; yours alone the bitter blame, If you tell, when life is ebbing, how the contract never came.

WHAT HAPPENED TO HILO

Horatio Hilo was a bird, He used to romp from first to third On any kind of single.

He played the sun-field like a master, You never saw a fielder faster, And oh, how he could bingle!

Horatio Hilo played out West, Where man develops to his best, And Eastern scouts all watched him;

They trailed him through the month of June, They said, "Him for the big league soon," And finally they cotched him.

Horatio joined a big league team, Thus gratifying boyhood's dream, And got the rooters rooting;

He was the captain of the crew At spearing flies and ground balls, too;

He never thought of booting.

One night when Jack Frost whispered zero, A man named Fletcher met our hero And offered him a salary So large and thick and fat and round That it would reach from near the ground Clear to the upper gallery.

Horatio listened, felt the clutch, And subsequently got in Dutch, His former chieftain fired him.

The chieftain watched his bowed down head, And, asked for explanation, said Horatio tired him.

"All right!"

Horatio said, "you betcher I'll go and get some coin from Fletcher," But he was snubbed that morning.

So, baseball players, if you're wise, And think you'd like to Fletcherize, Hark to the Gypsy's warning!

I WAS WITH CLARKE

"I was with Clarke," the pitcher said To the Pittsburg millionaire.

The rich man bowed his silvery head To the pitcher standing there.

"Enough, good man!

Give me your mitt!

Walk right in, I implore.

Fred Clarke or any friend of his Finds here an open door."

"I was with Clarke," the pitcher said.

"Never mind," the rich man cried.

"Right over there is a Morris chair-- Come, sit you by my side.

And so you pitched for Clarke.

Well, well!

Try a flagon of this wine, For any friend of Frederick Clarke Is sure a friend of mine."

"I was with Clarke," the twirler said.

"So you told me," said his host.

"Fill up your glass, and let me pass The best cigar I boast."

"As I was saying," the pitcher cried, Taking a puff and sip, "As I was saying, I was with Clarke On one Spring training trip!"

Then from his cozy seat arose That Pittsburg millionaire.

He grabbed the stranger by the nose And yanked him from his chair.

And then he closed the truthful eyes And split the lower lip Of the man who was with Frederick Clarke On one Spring training trip.