Part 4

Mulligan “catches the ball on the snout;” It’s just where he likes it; he smashes it out. Biff--on the trade-mark--it whirls like a shot; They’re yelling and cheering all over the lot. A shout, then a groan from the well-crowded stands; The drive travels straight to the outfielder’s hands. Two feet to the left or two feet to the right And Mulligan’s swat would have captured the fight. Just a matter of inches from out of the line Changed him from a “star” to a “mutt” and a “shine.” Just two stingy feet--aye, there is the rub-- He didn’t hit safe, so they called him a dub.

Pat Flaherty gets one that isn’t his kind, But he closes his orbs and he swings at it blind. ’Twas a weak-sister swat and not one-half as stout As the one which poor Mulligan “slammed on the snout.” 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.

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 next fellow’s effort is puny and tame, But it hits the right spot and so gathers him fame. It’s the lore of the age from the centuries brought: “The bunt may roll safe, while the hard smash is caught.” You may strive twice as hard for the rich prize at stake, But the fellow that wins is the one “with the break.”

THE GRAND OLD WINTER LEAGUE.

Here’s to the league where they all hit three hundred; Here’s to the league where they all bag the flag; Here’s to the wonderful, mighty, and thunderful Swat of the artist who’s springing the gag-- Springing the gag while the old stove is roaring, Spieling of games that he won in the pinch; Fence-breaking hammerer, clean-’em-up slammerer, 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; Where for a spell all the umpires are honest, Where every mogul has shown keen intrigue; Hip for the dope from the circuit of hope, Hail to the glorious Typewriter League!

THE SLIDE OF PAUL REVERE.

Listen, fanatics, and you shall hear Of the midnight slide of Paul Revere; How he scored from first on an outfield drive By a dashing sprint and a headlong dive-- ’Twas the greatest play pulled off that year.

Now the home of poets and potted beans, Of Emersonian ways and means In baseball epic has oft been sung Since the days of Criger and old Cy Young; But not even fleet, deer-footed Bay Could have pulled off any such fancy play As the slide of P. Revere, which won The famous battle of Lexington.

The Yanks and the British were booked that trip In a scrap for the New World championship; But the British landed a bit too late, So the game didn’t open till half past eight, And Paul Revere was dreaming away When the umpire issued his call for play.

On, on they fought, ’neath the Boston moon, As the British figured, “Not yet, but soon;” For the odds were against the Yanks that night, With Paul Revere blocked away from the fight And the grandstand gathering groaned in woe, While a sad wail bubbled from Rooters’ Row.

But wait! Hist! Hearken! and likewise hark! What means that galloping near the park? What means that cry of a man dead sore? “Am I too late? Say, what’s the score?” And echo answered both far and near, As the rooters shouted: “There’s Paul Revere!”

O how sweetly that moon did shine When P. Revere took the coaching line! He woke up the grandstand from its trance And made the bleachers get up and dance; He joshed the British with robust shout Until they booted the ball about. He whooped and he clamored all over the lot, Till the score was tied in a Gordian knot.

Now, in this part of the “Dope Recooked” Are the facts which history overlooked-- How Paul Revere came to bat that night And suddenly ended the long-drawn fight; How he singled to center, and then straightway Dashed on to second like Harry Bay; Kept traveling on, with the speed of a bird, Till he whizzed like a meteor, rounding third. “Hold back, you lobster!” but all in vain The coachers shouted in tones of pain; For Paul kept on with a swinging stride, And he hit the ground when they hollered: “Slide!”

Spectacular plays may come and go In the hurry of Time’s swift ebb and flow; But never again will there be one Like the first American “hit and run.” And as long as the old game lasts you’ll hear Of the midnight slide of P. Revere.

THE ANNUAL RETURN.

One by one they’re drifting back-- Hank McGee to Hackensack; Pat Maguire, the world-famed “spitter;” Mike the Bite, “three-hundred” hitter; Jim and Ed and Bill and Jack. One by one they’re drifting back, With their curves, their keen intrigue, To the swift Grass Cutter’s League.

One by one they leave and go Back again to Kokomo, Kankakee and Rural Dell, Where they cast a mystic spell On the “scouts” who touted them, Each a “human diadem,” In a serried line return With their “curves and speed to burn.”

One by one they fade away To the fragrant, uncut hay. “Second Wagners,” “second Cobbs” Back upon their old-time jobs In the Fried Ham Circuit where They were stars, with some to spare; Where they played with famed eclat[*] In the field and at the bat.

[* As in “cat.”]

One by one they file back home To the sweet scent of the loam; Yet but one brief month ago They were “making Walsh look slow”-- Each, the phenom of the age, Flashed upon the sporting age As the “greatest of them all” When it came to playing ball.

Pounding on the beaten track-- Hank McGee to Hackensack, Pat Maguire to Kankakee, Mike to “Sunny Tennessee”-- In a serried line return, With their “curves and speed to burn,” Batting eyes and keen intrigue, To the swift Grass Cutter’s League.

IN THE GOOD OLD WINTER TIME.

(Old, but to the point. As sung by the fan chorus around many circuits.)

I.

An old fan sat one day at a table, small and round, Drinking every kind of liquid which in that place could be found. He had forty-seven chances, and he never fumbled one, Catching sixteen sparkling high balls ere he scored his first home run.

While sitting at that table he began to read the dope, Which depicted every manager in front up Pennant Slope; But soon in dreamy fancy from the page he turned away, And to the near-by barkeep these idle words did say:

_Chorus._

“In the good old winter time, the good old winter time, How swiftly from the bottom all the tail-end people climb. They call each new recruit a ‘peach,’ although he is a ‘lime.’ O how they nature-fake us in the good old winter time!”

II.

The months rolled by and spring had come, and there on Rooters’ Row 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! By summer almost every ‘peach’ turns out to be a ‘lime.’ O how they nature-fake us in the good old winter time!”

AFTER THE GAME.

Now that the hard-fought day is ended, With laurels for the favored few; The cheering and the jeering blended In praise or blame that may be due; Now that the score has been completed, Beyond the shallow depths of fame, Among both Victors and Defeated We’ll turn to those who played the game.

Not in the losing or the winning, Success nor failure for the day; But from the battle’s first beginning We’ll take their work up, play by play. How well they tried! how they stood ready! Beyond the world crowd’s narrow sight We’ll lift our glasses, bravely, steady, And drink to those who fought the fight.

The game is done, the fight completed, What matters now who reached the goal? Alike the Victor and Defeated Wait for the final scorer’s scroll; And those who look may read the story Of star by star against each name, Set over those with world-won glory, The list of those who played the game.

ON ROOTERS’ ROW.

I.

We got a swell chance now to cop wid dat guy at de bat; Why, say, dat hobo couldn’t hit de ball yard wid his hat. If he was in a steamboat and it blew up in a wreck, He couldn’t hit de water if he tumbled off de deck; I’ve paid me month’s rent four times since he stung one on de snout, And what I’m sayin’ to you is dat’s slumpin’ some, old scout. Two runs to tie, de bases choked; we get ’em to de mat, And den a piece of cheese like him comes wobblin’ to de bat.

Bing! on de nose--O wow! O wow! Beyond de fielder’s mitt. Say, where’s de bloomin’ guy wot said dat lobster couldn’t hit? I guess he didn’t get to dat last bender wid de wood, An’ wasn’t I just tellin’ you I knowed de hobo could? Three runs across de bloomin’ plate, and now de scrap’s a cinch; Dere never was a guy like him to clout one in a pinch; Right on de nose across de lot, beyond de outfield’s reach, An’ wasn’t I just tellin’ you dat lobster was a peach?

II.

Say, maybe dis ain’t pie to-day wid Mickey on de hill; Dey couldn’t beat dat sucker if he handed ’em de pill; He ain’t lost one in fourteen weeks, and any time dey get A base hit when he’s workin’ right just sue me for de debt. You’ve got to hand it to him, Bo, and dat’s no foolish tip, He makes dose bloomin’ batters look like chickens wid de pip; I’ll take me bonnet off to him--he’s kept us in de race, Fer minus him I’d bet me coat we’d be in seventh place.

Two doubles and a base on balls here in de openin’ round? I wonder why de manager leaves dat mutt on de mound? Another hit, another pass! See here, you crazy lout, Why don’t you warm a _pitcher_ up and take dat bonehead out? Who said dat guy could pitch a ball? Dere goes another pass. Dat mucker ain’t got smoke enough to crack a pane of glass. De minute he walked in de box I knowed we’d hit the ditch, An’ wasn’t I just tellin’ you dat hobo couldn’t pitch?

THE LOVE SONNETS OF A SON OF SWAT.

I.

Take it from me, this Single League’s shine, My heart got batted from the box to-day; For when we met, the dope says right away: “She bats .300 on the Peaches’ Nine.” I’d draft her now, if I thought she would sign And help me divvy up a season’s pay. I pitched this at her, but my grandstand play Went wild. Says she: “No bush league dub for mine.”

Say, she’s the big league kid, or I’m a skate; For every time I come up--zip, like that, She shoots those lamps of hers across the plate, And I strike out, like Casey on a bat; For when she curves one over from those eyes, “Three strikes and out” is just about my size.

II.

Speaking of curves, say, on the level, Bo, She’d make Waddell look like a dinky-dink, And Eddie Reulbach’s straight without a kink; For she’s all curves from neck four feet below-- Out-curves and in-shoots, all there in a row. Compared to hers, Ed Plank’s are on the blink. If Hughey Jennings sees her, I don’t think “Wild Bill” next year will get a chance to show.

I’ve played some games that I tried hard to win; But this is my world’s series championship; And if I lose, back to the minor bin For your young uncle--that’s my one best tip. To-night I’ll call, and risk an awful freeze By showing her just how to work the “squeeze.”

III.

Say, I’m the lemon leaguer on a slump; In love’s ball game the bench is where I sit. I couldn’t foul one, much less make a hit Or tie the game up with a timely thump. I had a chance to make good on the jump; But when I tried to grab her little mitt, I dropped it first, and then I fumbled it, Playing the game like some bone-headed chump.

But when at last I got my eye and tried To work the “squeeze,” she coached me to my place. “Get back,” she warbled. “Slide, you lobster, slide; Don’t take too long a lead from off your base: Just play it safe, you mutt; first time at bat Is not the place to spring a play like that.”

IV.

This game of love is not my longest suit; Doping it out has put wheels in my bun. 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.

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. The gong rings out, the umpire shouts, “Play ball!” You rush out gaily till you hear her call: “Back up, back up, your salary whip is lame. What batting average stands against your name In Dun’s or Bradstreet’s little ‘Guide to All?’ You can’t tag love inside a cottage wall Minus the gate receipts--not with this dame!”

“Nix, not for mine,” says she. “Fine chance to win We’d have with landlord on the rival team, With grocer, butcher fielding up our tin And smashing liners into love’s young dream. Yours for a steady job and no fatigue Before I sign with any Fireside League.”

VI.

Much like the mutt with home plate well in sight, Who sprints on in with long, stake-winning stride, Bringing the tying run with bulging pride; As hope once more soars upward, like a kite Who thinks he’s got it beat all right, all right; While thousands clamor: “Hit the dirt, there--slide!” When over all the tumult, far and wide, The umpire shrieks, “You’re out!” in mad delight.

So I got mine in true O’Loughlin style: Just when I thought the game would be a tie Her old man yelled, “You’re out about a mile,” And waved me back with murder in his eyes. “I’m acting umpire in this park,” says he; “So don’t you pass no funny talk with me.”

VII.

So moves life’s game wherever we may go; At every base some umpire stands and waits-- A delegate shipped earthward by the fates-- Who has it in for players here below. We drive one safe inside three feet or so; The robber umpire struts around and states That “it went foul.” We know his eyes ain’t mates; But “foul” it stands, and so the score books go.

But I ain’t through. Perhaps in nineteen eight, If I can act like Tyrus Cobb at bat, I’ll get a chance to sign a running mate And pitch my park within a two-room flat. Five thousand per might clear her old man’s vision And make him change that other bum decision.

AT THE END OF THE GAME.

When I have heard the Final Umpire’s call Ring out across the diamond of my strife That ends the little game which we call life, I shall not care about the score at all, How well I fielded, how I hit the ball; Nor all the cheering and the tumult rife, Nor shouts of scorn that once cut like a knife-- These shall not matter in the endless pall;

These shall not matter on that final day When life’s game passes with the setting sun, If I but hear the Mighty Umpire say: “The records show no pennant you have won, No brilliant average that brings you fame; Yet you go up, because ‘you played the game.’”

THE MOGUL’S DREAM.

(With apologies to “The Actor’s Dream.”)

One night a mogul died, and straight his soul Set forth upon its journey to the goal Of all good people. But the gate was locked; So while he shivered in the cold, he knocked-- Not once, but twice--he rapped with all his might Upon the pearly entrance, barred and tight.

“Who comes,” St. Peter cried, “with all that din?” “It’s me,” the magnate cried. “Please let me in.” “And who are you,” he heard the good saint say, “That you should hear the golden harps, I pray? What have you done upon that earth so drear, That you should mingle with the angels here?” “I was the manager,” he straight replied-- “The mogul of a ball team ere I died.”

“And what means that,” replied the saint, “pray tell?” “It means that all you ever get is--well, I won’t repeat the word I had in mind; And yet no other fits that I can find. Through fall and winter every year I plan To gather in a pennant-winning clan; I labor hard from early morn till night In search of talent anywhere in sight; Right off the reel, my pitchers one by one Blow up, and then my catchers are undone; And for my trouble, what get I in thanks? The fiendish yelp of twenty thousand cranks.

My life was one of fiendish, piercing woe, The roughest on that unkempt plain below; Aye, to the full I’ve drunk life’s bitter dregs-- Hissed, jeered at, pelted with decrepit eggs. And to what end I come back in the spring? Only to hear the anvil chorus ring.”

_L’Envoi._

“Come, enter quick,” St. Peter then replied; “Heaven’s joys to such as you are not denied; Choose any harp among these scenes of mirth. O HAPLESS SOUL, YOU HAD YOUR HELL ON EARTH!”

HARD-LUCK ADAM.

Adam had no Easter hat to buy for Mrs. Eve; Adam had no “cost-of-living” troubles to aggrieve; Adam had no job to hold by slaving day or night, Adding columns, beating carpets, planning stuff to write. Adam had a hectic cinch, played across the boards-- Everything that nature and an idle life affords. And yet I wouldn’t change with him, whatever be my loss: He never saw a triple drive the winning run across.

Adam had no dress to buy to calm his spouse’s grief (All that Adam had to do was go and pull a leaf). Back in Father Adam’s day, long and long ago, There was not an Aldrich nor a crusty Uncle Joe; Raving politicians never roamed about the land, Double-crossing voters in a way to beat the band. But with it all poor Adam never had a chance to dream Of bold three-hundred hitters and a pennant-winning team.

Adam lived on Easy Street, dreaming in the sun; Never a policeman there to cut in on his fun; Never had a cook around threatening to leave; “Bridge” was not invented in the days of Mrs. Eve. Take it up and down the line in those golden days, Adam had it on us in a hundred different ways; And yet with all his blessings, what a dull and massive pall-- For poor old Father Adam never saw a game of ball!

DENTON (CY) YOUNG.

(The Grand Old Man of Balldom faces his twentieth season as a major league slabman with every indication that it will be among his best campaigns.)

Fame may be fleeting and glory may fade; Life at its best is a breath on the gale. One hero passes, another is made; New stars arise as the old one sets pale. So when a stalwart steps out from the throng, On with the tribute, let garlands be flung. Here’s to the sturdy and here’s to the strong; Here’s to the king of them all, Denton Young.

Anson has passed like a star in the night; Richardson’s name from the line-up is cast; Rusie and Latham are out of the fight; Mighty Buck Ewing is buried and passed; Clarkson the wizard, and Kelly and Gore Linger no more on the fan’s fickle tongue. Only one name flashes out as of yore-- There on the red line of battle is Young.

Tiernan and Tucker? We wait for reply. 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.

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? Have all deserted the Clan of the Bold? Not while the echoes are ringing for Young.

Breitenstein, Phillips, and Weyhing and Nops, Hahn, Rhines, and Corbett and Dr. McJames-- Where are their shoots and their puzzling drops? Who cheers to-day when you mention their names? Lost in the shadows, their story is told; On memory’s ramparts their pictures are hung; But here in the lime light, as great as of old, Looms up the stalwart--the only Cy Young.

Where is the mighty Dalrymple to-day? Miller and Denny and “Cuppy the Sly?” Show me their names in the line-up, I pray. Vainly I wait for an answering cry. Few of us stand to the guns through the years; One at a time from the heights we are flung. Heroes soon pass in this Valley of Tears; But here’s to the king of them all--Denton Young.

THE UMP’S MIDWINTER DREAM.

It was a sunny day in spring; The warbling birds were all a-wing; An April sky of azure hue Enchanted the fanatic’s view, And sultry was the atmosphere Upon the first game of the year. Upon the field His Umps appeared, And, lo! the throng arose and cheered, While all around the fife and drums Played “Hail! the Conquering Hero Comes.”

The game began, and to the plate The first man wandered up, sedate; “Strike one, strike two, strike three--you’re out!” The umpire waited for the shout Of rage from all around, but not A murmur bubbled from the lot; The player bowed and walked away, Without another word to say; Nor paused, with language somewhat free Impugning his ancestral tree. Nobody had a kick to make, However costly his mistake; And when a foul tip off the bat Came hurling by and knocked him flat, In sympathy the bleachers sat With saddened hearts and tear-dimmed eyes, Until once more they saw him rise.