Grantland Rice

“ Unto that game I took her
Into the baseball park.
Light as the down of thistles,
The fielders chased the ball;
Loud as the roar of tempests
Followed the rooters’ call;
And I heard my heart beat loudly
As our star man came to bat,
When my little sweetheart murmured:
“Say, look at that woman’s hat!”
Loudly the base hit rattled,
Bringing the tieing score;
Wildly the crowd upstarted,
Yelping a mighty roar;{63}
Softly there came the whisper,
Ending my joyous fit:
“Why is that poor man running?
What is a three-base hit?” ”

“ For after Casey fanned that day the citizens all left,
And one by one they sought new lands, heartbroken and bereft;
The joyous shout no more rang out of children at their play;
The village blacksmith closed his shop; the druggist moved away.
Alas for Mudville’s vanished pomp when mighty Casey reigned!
Her grandeur has departed now; her glory’s long since waned.
Her place upon the map is lost, and no one seems to care
A whit about the old town now since Casey biffed the air. ”

“ Of aught else upon this earth, you should be an umpire, Ted!
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. ”

“ Lining up my winter legions for a “sure first next year.{88}”
I admit “the luck broke badly” and the “umpires crimped my chance,”
I confess to “injured players” and a few less minor sins;
Then I jump out in the open and I do a pennant dance,
When the last real game is over and the winter league begins.
The pitchers I have gathered when the snow begins to fall
Are the wonders of the nation—every one’s a Hurling King;
And my outfield—Holy Whiskers!—how that bunch can hit the ball
When they walk up with the willow from October unto spring! ”

“ The game is on, and in the strife
Where Fate, the pitcher, speeds the ball
The player plays the game of life
Until the final shadows fall.
{10} WHEN THE BUG IS ON THE BAWL.
Come, sing ye, Jimmy Riley, from your ancient lyric stock,
“When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in the shock,”
And we’ll let the bounding echoes catch the lyric in your lay
As it darts around the bases to the outfield and away;
For there’s music in its make-up and there’s rhythm in its run,
With a touch of “back to nature” in its sentiment of fun. ”

“ Where every pitcher he faced was a cinch.
Here’s to the league where they’ve all cinched the pennant—
Cinched with a line-up that’s keen on the job;
Where in the bingtime of oncoming springtime
Every guy signed is a “second Ty Cobb.”
Hail to the Wagners and dashing young Matthewsons—
There with the speed and the curves and control;
Swift-footed, heady, keen-eyed, and steady,
Already sewing the flag to the pole.
Here’s to the league where the hapless tail-ender
Rises each year to the crest of the game;
Where there is never an artist unclever,
Never a star that is injured or lame ”

“ Or can you wonder that the yelp should percolate the gloam,
With Larry waiting anxiously to bring the runners home?
The pitcher whirls and cuts one loose—a brawny gent is he—
And, like a cannon shot, it shoots above the batsman’s knee;
He swings—and lo! from every throat of that excited crowd
There comes a shriek of fiendish joy—protracted long and loud.
{36}
The greatest laugh of all crowns a scrappy game of ball
When a foul-tip cracks the umpire on the knee.
{37}
The fans arise and yelp in glee, while hats are thrown in air ”

“ Just as you think you’ve got the pennant won,
Bum luck will land you on the soapy chute;
You come back hard, but every time you boot
Each chance you get until the game is done;
And when at last you need the tying run,
There ain’t no bleacher bugs to rise and root.{105}
I doped it out the first time that we faced
To warm up good until I got control,
And then to curve a fast one round her waist,
Hoping this way to put her in a hole.
Such was my dope; but, as I’ve said before,
The dope is not what makes the full box score.
V.
Ah, love, indeed thou art a heartless game. ”

“ This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1928.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works. ”

“ Yet the bleachers arose with a yelp and a screech
As it twisted just out of an infielder’s reach.
It broke up the game, and yet only two feet
Closer in and the tap would have been easy meat;
Just a matter of inches—a bit farther down—
Changed him from a “dub” to a “star” of renown;
Just two pesky feet, but it ended the game,
So they plastered a new-made cigar with his name.{92}
You’ll find it the same upon life’s massive chart—
The “star” and the “dub” are but inches apart.
One smashes out hard, but his drive never lands,
As it travels direct to another one’s hands. ”

“ The same fan sat with eyes ablaze and ruddy cheeks aglow.
He saw the “Second Wagner” strike out four times in one game,
While seven ghastly errors were chalked up against his name.
He saw the “sterling pitcher” who had “starred” at “Rural Falls,”
Yield nineteen massive bingles and a dozen base on balls,
And then above the battle and the rattle of the fray
He softly hummed the chorus of that far-gone winter day:
Chorus.
“In the good old winter time, the good old winter time,
How swiftly from the bottom all the tail-end people climb! ”

“ Jack Ward and Pfeffer are out of the game;
No cheer arises when Brouthers steps by;
Even Van Haltren is only a name;
Meekin and Hoffer and “Kind Bid” McPhee—
Their day is over, their songs are all sung.
Lo! like the roar of the storm-harried sea
Swells the wild chorus for Denton (Cy) Young.{113}
Herman Long’s only a memory now;
Big Del is under the myrtle to-day—
No more the laurel is bound to his brow;
Bob Lowe and Zimmer have passed from the fray.
Where are the heroes saluted of old—
Heroes to whom through the years we have clung? ”

“ When another takes the shift where you’ve learned to do and dare,
You will need another job—one that’s a monstrosity,
That will soak up, day by day, all your strenuosity.
It must be a husky job, full of smoke and fire to boot;
And in looking round I’ve found only one I know will suit,
Only one where your big stick will be needed day by day;
Only one to fit in, Ted, with your rough-and-tumble way;
Only one where in the end you will some day long for rest,
Where your energy will wane and your spirit be depressed.
You will find it different from any “nature-faking” fuss ”

“ And earned about one-seventh of your wage or daily pay?
When your energy had left you and your dizzy dome would throb
As you spent the day in yawning or four-flushing on your job?
Well, you have if you are human; so while out among the crowd
In the grandstand or the bleachers, shouting curses long and loud
At some “boot” or costly bobble, let the old dope trickle through
That perhaps the second baseman has the same old feeling too. ”

“ Umpire Sheridan’s decisions threw a smell like gasoline;
Jones was punctured in the lattice; Walsh’s benders broke their backs—
For they couldn’t even hit him with a shotgun or an ax.’
Baseball must be very wicked,” said she with puzzled face.
“Yes, it’s hell,” her husband answered, “when your team ain’t in the race.”
{122} A HARD-LUCK YARN.
While reposin’ one day in me leisurely way, a-puffin’ a wicked cheroot,
I happens to spy with a glance of me eye a gent in a major league suit.
“I know who ye are—you’re a major league star,” says I, “or you once used to be.” ”

“ The very ones to give this town a pennant-winning nine.
There’s no more use in talking, we have got the old flag cinched;
I can see that banner waving, with the pennant good as pinched.{125}
Right from the start it looks to me a runaway this year;
I hope we don’t break up the race (this is my only fear) .
(April Fifteenth.)
Hurrah! The season’s started—the opening game’s to-day!
The fans are swarming to the park to see our heroes play;
The whole darn town is turning out, to get in on the fun
And cheer the team that has the flag already good as won. ”

“ With countless duties yet to do;
You leaders who must head the line,
One dumb play may bring lifelong shame;
Watch every signal, every sign.
Get in the game! Get in the game!
Get in the game—this age is live,
And loafers have no part to play.
If you would win, if you would thrive,
“Keep on your toes” in every fray;
And if you rise or if you fall,
It matters not—the Road to Fame
But echoes with the world-wide call:
“Get in the game! Get in the game!”
{86} THE GOODS.
Here’s to the guy that delivers the goods—
Gent from the city or geek from the woods ”

“ The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again,
And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men;
And Casey smiled; his rugged face no longer wore a frown—
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.
All Mudville had assembled—ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box, the multitude went wild;
He doffed his cap in proud disdain, but Casey only smiled.{14}
“Play ball!” ”

“ He was a major leaguer, she a fan, so fair and trim;
But they knew not as he opened up the game by murmuring “Love”
That father was the umpire on the stairway just above.
“I like your form,” he led off first; “with me you’ve made a hit;
Your curves are good, you’ve got the speed, and you are looking fit.
Now if with you, my turtle dove, I make a hit likewise,
Won’t you improve my single life and make a sacrifice?”
“I’ll promise to support you, dear, with all my skill each day ”

“ To hear that Casey tellin’ of old Anson and his men;
Why home runs wuz so common that nobody waved a hat,
With Williamson, King Kelly, or Fred Pfeffer at the bat;
A man who didn’t hit above .500 couldn’t stick
With that old bunch, for Anson would release him mighty quick;
They handled ground balls with their teeth and often shut their eyes
While in the act of pullin’ down the longest, hardest flies;
And after all the “fannin’ bees” each night we used to dream
Of the man who played with Anson on the old Chicago team.{75}
But somehow this feller Casey never felt like goin’ in ”

“ I was too bloomin’ good, or I’m certain I would have acquired quite a notable name.”
{124} A FAN’S DIARY. (March Fifteenth.)
We have the greatest team this year beneath the shining sun.
I’ve studied up the dope on them, yes, every blooming one.
Our fielders are spectacular; and you will throw a fit
When you discover how this bunch can play the game and hit.
Our manager, Mike Johnson, is the only one best bet;
He knows exactly what to do, and what new men to get.
They say he is a wonder at developing a team;
And on the side he always has some pennant-winning scheme. ”

“ When the numbers dance around you, while you’re ripping, raving mad
That the pesky, peevish figures of the column fail to add?{90}
When your orbs feel dry and blinky, and the harder that you look,
All the more the figures jumble on the pages of your book? ”

“ To thousands: “Batter up—play ball!”
He saw a tall guy nod and beck
And then cut one around the neck,
While in a trance the slugger there
Inanely paddled at the air;
He saw the shortstop leave his place
And flag one back of second base
And wing it swiftly on ahead
To where the dashing runner sped;{18}
He saw, before his flashing eye,
The keen outfielder fenceward fly,
And with a mighty effort pull
The drive down with the bases full.
He heard once more the rooters call,
The ringing clash of bat and ball,
The cry of “Belt it on the snout! ”

“ If you’ll just call the game a tie, I will no longer roam;
And when I slide into the plate, please call me safe at home.”
“First tell me, sir,” she pitched at him, “how high you ranked last fall;
Show me your fielding average and how hard you hit the ball.
{20}
He swung like Wagner at his best, a sole-inspiring clout;
The son of swat slid down the steps; the umpire yelled: “You’re out.”
{21}
In matrimony’s busy league dumb plays are out of place ”

“ They called him “Strike-Out Casey,” from the mayor down the line;
And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.
He pondered in the days gone by that he had been their king,
That when he strolled up to the plate they made the welkin ring;
But now his nerve had vanished, for when he heard them hoot
He “fanned” or “popped out” daily, like some minor league recruit.{13}
He soon began to sulk and loaf, his batting eye went lame ”