Right Off The Bat — "Home Folks" - The Outfielder's Dream - To The Lady Bugs - The Law Of Averages - A Converted Rooter - Polo In Arizona - The Laddies' League - The ,000 Beauty - The Lay of the New York Fan - The Old Rooter - "If"
"HOME FOLKS" "Stranger, give me a chaw of terbaccer," Came from the lanky Georgia "cracker."
"Know Ty Cobb?
Wal, you bet we do!
Desperate youngster, tough clear through!
This is his home, but we ain't too proud.
We hope he'll stay with that Dee-troit crowd.
From all we hear, he spends his nights Roamin' the streets and havin' fights.
And when he's playin', from what folks say, He spikes a baserunner every day.
Stranger, we're all his father's friends, But them wild young blades all strikes bad ends!"
"Is this where Mathewson lives?"
I asked Of a peaceful person, who calmly basked Up on the side of a sunny hill O'erlooking the town of Factoryville.
"He was born here, stranger," the native said.
"What is the matter?
Is he dead?
I wouldn't be sorry, to tell the truth, For there is a mighty swelled up youth!
They tell me, those that follows them things, Matty is one of baseball's kings.
That's a knock for him and his folks, I say, 'Cause baseball is crooked, anyway!"
Then I went to the home of John McGraw, And hearkened well to the natives' jaw.
They mentioned John in a manner grim, And told of all that they had on him.
And I went to the home of Francois Chance, Hearing them give their idol the lance.
And to many another home I went, Finding this truth to be evident: He who wins fame by moving away To a big league town will be wise to stay!
THE OUTFIELDER'S DREAM
Wild was the night, yet a wilder night Hung 'round the fielder's pillow, For he dreamt that night of his wondrous might With the ash, also known as the willow.
A few fond cockroaches lingered near, From the mouldy moulding pouring;
They knew, by the sounds that smote the ear, That the hard hitting demon was snoring.
They knew by the way he floundered there, By the murmurs hastily spoken, That he dreamed a bit of his home run hit The day that the fence was broken.
They knew that he dreamed of his record grand, His wonderful batting and fielding, That he always hit safe when Ty Cobb fanned, That he had the pitchers yielding.
Wild was the night in the farming town, Wild as the wildest battle, Then the father's voice rang out, "Come down And feed them gol dern cattle!"
The cockroaches back to the moulding crept, The sleeper rose from the clover;
And into his boots he deftly leapt-- The outfielder's dream was over.
THE LAW OF AVERAGES
_The Winter League is here again, and in his native town The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down.
_ * * * Spike Mulligan, the shortstop brave, who led the league in hitting, And drew one thousand bones a month for tending to his knitting, Is working in the corner store, slaving to beat the band, And drawing fifteen seeds a month for selling sugared sand.
O'Halloran, the pitcher, who was certainly a hummer, And got a prince's ransom for the work he did last Summer, Is keeping books this Winter for a shop that deals in buckets, And getting for the same each month as much as twenty ducats.
McGonnigal, the fielder fleet, who hit like mad all season, And got a monthly envelope that seemed beyond all reason, Is driving team in Grangerville, and adding to his hoard By drawing down a salary of five a week and board.
McGinn, the famous backstop, who could throw so well to bases, And who received last season fifty-seven hundred aces, Is throwing cordwood on a sled, far from the rooters' gaze, And getting eighteen dollars cash for every thirty days.
* * * _The Winter League is here again, and in his native town The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down.
_ A CONVERTED ROOTER
Say, on the level, fellows, just a year ago to-day I wouldn't give a nickel for to watch them Yankees play;
The Joints was good enough for me, and since I was a kid I hustled to the Polo Grounds and seen each stunt they did.
Yankees?
Well, say, I couldn't see the Yankees with a glass;
I'd always say their style of play was very much high grass.
Yes, it was all the Polo Grounds--I never missed a game;
I'd go if I was blind and deaf and paralyzed and lame.
When Matty pitched I'd lose my head and outlung all the boys-- The ushers put me out once, when I made too blame much noise.
When Farrell's club was here instead, I used to go to Coney, Because I always figgered that the Yanks was only phony.
But, say!
I've changed my mind a lot, and that's no showgirl's dream;
If Farrell hadn't been all white, the Joints would be no team.
They didn't have no home at all after the fire that time, But Farrell says, "Use my grounds, boys; I hope it helps you climb."
A guy that does a thing like that, without no hot-air mush, Can have my fifty cents a day, the same as John T. Brush!
TO THE LADY BUGS
Lady Bug, Lady Bug, don't you fly home-- Stay till the ninth ere deciding to roam;
Don't you despair when the outlook seems blue, Be a game Lady Bug--see the game through!
"Why does that man wear those things on his shins?"
"How can we tell, when it's over, who wins?"
"Which is the umpire?
Tell me, George, please, And what do they mean when they call him a cheese?"
"Isn't that Matty, that little boy there?
What--that's the bat boy?
Well, I do declare!"
"Why do they throw to that man on first base?"
"Hasn't that Indian got a fine face?"
"What do they mean when they yell at each other?"
"Don't you think Wiltse looks just like my brother?"
"Can't I keep score just as well without paper?"
"See Mister Latham, the way he can caper!"
"Isn't this grand?
I could come here at noon!"
"Well, I declare!
Is it over so soon?"
Lady Bug, Lady Bug, feathers and fuss, Ask all the questions you want to of us.
Maybe we'll kid you, but, please, don't you care;
Baseball is better because you are there.
POLO IN ARIZONA
"How are you, pal?"
said Phoenix Phil, when he saw me late last night;
"I'm back from the polo game," said I, "let's go and get a bite."
"These polo games are funny enough," said my Arizona friend, "With all their swell society folks and style without no end;
But a polo game worth hiking sixty thousand miles to see Was a game we played on the desert once," said Phoenix Phil to me.
"An English guy with an extra eye," said my Arizona friend, "Had taught us the game of polo, from beginning clean to end.
The Prescott Kid on Old Katydid was the star we banked on most, For the Kid was cool as a pickle and fast as a midnight ghost.
Old Katydid, Kid's pet bronco, was smarter than 'K. & E.
,' Which is saying a lot for a bucking horse," said Phoenix Phil to me.
"Well, the English guy with the extra eye picked a team of his English pals, And we played a game of polo for the Phoenix boys and gals.
But the game ain't more than started when the Prescott Kid gets gay And into the thick of the playing he bucks with his outlaw gray.
Them English was game as pebbles, but they broke and then they hid, Which wouldn't surprise you much, pal, if you saw Old Katydid.
* * * _"Polo here in the East is fine, where hosses has pedigree, But Old Katydid was the break-up Kid," said Phoenix Phil to me.
_ 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 ,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.
THE LAY OF THE NEW YORK FAN
Yes, the baseball season's over and the geese are flying South;
Giants count their winnings gaily, Yanks are frothing at the mouth.
Glancing o'er the season's records, looking at the layout now, Nothing seems to bring deep furrows to my pale and thoughtful brow.
True, we didn't win the pennant as we did in days of yore For the Yankees couldn't stop 'em and the Giants couldn't score, But the New York fans must chuckle (you can get this at a glance) When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance.
Oh, the Cubs of other seasons, how they made us writhe and curse!
How they made us leave the ball yard moving slowly, a la hearse.
Oh you Sheckard, oh you Schulte, oh you great Three Fingered Brown, Oh you little shortstop Tinker, idol of Chicago town!
We have followed all your doings, we have seen you going back, And to-night we're burning incense at the shrine of Connie Mack.
From the Battery to Harlem, rooters do a noisy dance When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance.
Where Lake Michigan is seething as the seasons hasten on, Near the home of beef and bustle, near the home of Bathhouse John, Gloom has settled, fans feel nettled, nerves are right on edge like knives, Fathers spank their little children, husbands beat their trusting wives.
But the rooters of Manhattan have no tales of woe to tell As they read their Sunday papers in the homes they love so well.
Yes, they simply have to chuckle (you can get this at a glance) When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance.
THE OLD ROOTER
I saw them open yesterday, the Giants and their foemen, I saw them field and hit and run, the fast men and the slow men;
The sky was just as blue above, the sod as green beneath As when the old-time Giants used to frisk around the heath.
But Billy Gilbert wasn't there, Old Second Baseman Billy, Who used to pluck 'em from the air And drive the bleachers silly.
I saw them open yesterday, I heard the turnstile clicking;
I heard the popcorn venders' cry and heard the tickers ticking.
The field was smooth as desert land, the multitude was shouting, And to the heavens rose the sound of clouting, clouting, clouting.
But Michael Donlin wasn't there, The Mike they used to cheer for.
"Come on, Mike, clout!"
was all the shout We used to have an ear for.
The Giants opened yesterday, an April day and sunny;
They played before a New York crowd of fashion, fun and money.
Grandstanders cheered, the young fans jeered; the crowd was standing, swaying, It made me sigh for days gone by, when first I saw them playing.
But Dan McGann has gone away And Dahlen with his science;
Mertes and Seymour couldn't stay-- The Giants opened yesterday But not the old-time Giants.
"IF" (Wireless Apologies to Rudyard Kipling) If John McGraw can hold his health and cunning, If Matty's whip retains its fibre fine, If Raymond doesn't keep the lager running From Harlem to Tom Sharkey's down the line;
If Ames can shake the hoodoo that has gripped him And bend them over as our Leon can, If Larry Doyle will fire the boots that tripped him, And field to suit the most exacting fan;
If Harold Chase can keep his boys together, The veterans and the youngsters side by side, If Vaughn and Ford and Quinn can safely weather The season's storms and keep a winning stride;
If Chase remains the friskiest of friskers Around the bag he plays so wondrous well;
If Edward Everett Bell will trim his whiskers, New York may win two pennants--who can tell?
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