A twist, a whirl, and a sudden jar,
 And off from the bat to the field afar—
 Off like the shot from a ten-inch gun,
 A gray-white streak through the slanting sun
 I soar away
 Through a summer’s day
 Where the frantic fielders of the fray,
 With dervish dance
 And anguished glance,
 Come whirling in to cop me;
 But I glide between
 With a mocking mien,
 And there is none to stop me.
A shout, a roar, and a ringing cheer,
 And on my way through the atmosphere
 I leap to the light where clenched hands grip
 As wild eyes watch me fly or skip
 Through open space
 In headlong race,
 As the joy of the ages lights each face
 And pulses jump
 With a vibrant thump
 As the sky reels from the roar,
 And the rafters ring
 With the song I sing
 To the tune of the winning score!
The song I sing is the sweetest song
 Or the saddest note to the waiting throng
 That the world has known through the ages dim—
 With keener lilt than a battle hymn,
 For my refrain
 Brings joy and pain,
 Where lost hopes rise and fond hopes wane,
 And in my path
 Sweeps a city’s wrath
 Or a city’s wild acclaim,
 And the planet’s ring
 With the song I sing—
 The song of a nation’s game!

ON THE ROAD TO ROOTERS’ ROW.

(Letting Mr. Kipling in, of course, on a bit of the graft.)

I.

In each long-deserted ball park from New York to Tennessee
 There’s the whisper of an echo wafted forth to you and me;
 For the wind calls through the pine trees and the maples, soft and low:
 “Come ye back, ye wild Fanatic—come ye back to Rooters’ Row.”
On the road to Rooters’ Row,
 In the sunlight’s golden glow,
 Can’t you hear those mad Bugs whooping
 As the pitcher fans a foe?
 On the road to Rooters’ Row,
 Where the sad fans wail in woe—
 Then a cheer comes up like thunder
 When the shortstop lays him low.

II.

When the peanut husks are falling and the “pop” is flowing free,
 Where they pound you on the backbone in a massive fit of glee,
 Where the “Hit ’er out, you sucker!” greets the batsman true and tried;
 Then a boding hush of terror, then a “Slide, you bonehead, slide!”
On the road to Rooters’ Row, etc.

III.

O the war whoops from the coachers as they writhe and dance about!
 O the “joshing” of the Sun Gods as they rise up with a shout!
 O the call of “thief” and “pirate” at the Fan Flock’s greatest foe,
 As the lordly umpire wanders once again by Rooters’ Row!
On the road to Rooters’ Row, etc.

IV.

Ship me somewhere into springtime where a sprinter starts for “first,”
 Where the only one commandment is “To win, or you’re the worst;”
 For I feel the fever coming once again to hear the call
 Of the vibrant-voiced director and his “Batter up—play ball!”
On the road to Rooters’ Row, etc.

“TILL THE LAST MAN IS OUT.”

Old pal, is the game just a trifle too rough?
 Is the flag of success floating out of your view?
 Does the schedule of Life seem too rocky and tough?
 Is the umpire “throwing it into you?”
 It may look that way, but fight on just the same,
 Get back at your rivals with “clout for clout;”
 Don’t think you are beaten and so pull up lame,
 For “the game’s never lost till the last man is out.”
“Run out every hit,” whether hard one or not,
 “Sacrifice” right when it’s well up to you;
 Don’t try to “hammer the ball from the lot,”
 Just “hit where they ain’t,” and a single will do.
 There’s many a line-up that came from behind
 When the outlook was gloomy and clouded with doubt;
 You’ll be in the running if you’ll bear in mind:
 “No game’s ever lost till the last man is out.”
Quite often the “hoodoo will camp on your trail,”
 And the luck break against you with never a stop;
 The harder you struggle, the more you will fail
 As you “fumble ’em,” “boot ’em,” and “let ’em all drop.”
 But it’s all “in the game,” so swing on to your pace,
 And don’t mind the knocking that’s floating about;
 It’s the finish that counts, not the start of the race,
 And “the game’s never lost till the last man is out.”
Good fortune may take you along for a day,
 But Fortune is fickle; don’t bank on her strong.
 “Fast work on the bases” in each scrappy fray,
 With “team work and hitting,” will take you along.
 You can’t help your errors, but cut out “dumb plays,”
 For those are the miscues that put you to rout;
 “Stand up to the plate” and remember always:
 “The game’s never lost till the last man is out.”

L’Envoi.

When you ponder it over, they’re both much the same,
 For life, just like baseball, is shrouded in doubt;
 And the point in them both is to “play out the game,”
 And never give up till “the last man is out.”

THE BUSHERS.

(A big advance order is now in for Christy Matthewson’s forthcoming volume on baseball; John L. Sullivan is at work upon a romance of the ring, of which he is the hero; Battling Nelson has just closed up a comfortable wad upon his edition of “The Life and Battles of Matthew Battling Nelson.”)

What league did Shakespeare ever lead?
 That busher Byron had the nerve
 To peddle out poetic creed,
 Who never batted at a curve.
 I’ll bet this Dante was a bluff,
 And minor leaguer on the side;
 For while he wrote a bale of stuff,
 His name is not in Spaulding’s guide.
What belt did Homer ever win?
 Fine chance that dub would have to-day
 To cash in on the easy tin
 Who never put his man away;
 And Milton had the nerve to try
 To make a living out of verse,
 Who never closed a rival’s eye
 Or split the big end of a purse.
No wonder in the days of yore
 Those ancient artists had no chance
 To chew a steak—or that they wore
 Big, healthy patches on their pants;
 In place of farming out a crop
 Of rhyme and meter without flaw,
 They should have learned to throw a drop
 Or slam a wallop to the jaw.

THE CLIMAX OF FAN JOY.

There was cheering in the grandstand when Bill Bradley hit to right,
 And the bleachers whooped and clamored in a chorus of delight;
 And when the twirler lost control and passed the next two “up,”
 The wine of human happiness brimmed swiftly o’er the cup.
The bases full, with two men out, and Larry at the bat.
 O, can you wonder that each fan should stand and wave his hat?
 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.

The greatest laugh of all crowns a scrappy game of ball

When a foul-tip cracks the umpire on the knee.

The fans arise and yelp in glee, while hats are thrown in air;
 The mighty chorus echoes from the ball yard to the square;
 It rumbles down the valley and resounds from peak to peak,
 And leagues away it travels on in one discordant shriek.
They stamp and shout in maddened rout; they joyfully embrace—
 A smile of perfect happiness illumines every face;
 Nor does the tumult quickly die, but, in exultant roar,
 It gathers volume like the waves which lash the ocean’s shore.
“Then Larry must have made a hit and cleared the sacks,” you say,
 “Thus winning with a mighty swat the hard-fought, brilliant fray!”
 No, Larry didn’t make a hit; the cause of all this din,
 The inshoot caromed off his bat and cracked the umpire’s shin.

SONGS OF SWAT—“YOU USTER BAT .300.”

A once Big Leaguer slid in home at 3 a.m. one morn
 With a perfect fielding average in the League of Barleycorn.
 He had pulled down fifteen high balls, every one quite warm and hot,
 And at every chance presented he was Wagner on the spot.
 But as he fumbled at the key his wife was waiting there
 With his favorite ash furniture suspended in the air;
 And as he tried to curve across she bunted at his head
 And slammed a triple on his neck as viciously she said:

Chorus.

“You uster to hit .300—O, your batting was immense!
 You uster slam ’em every day against the left field fence;
 But now you’re in a bush league, for there ain’t no guy in sight
 Can bat around three hundred, Bo, who bats around all night.”
The Leaguer tried to play it safe before she fanned him out.
 “I’ll make a sacrifice,” he cried, “but ease up on that clout;
Hans Wagner never saw the day when he could hit like that.
 I only wish that John McGraw could see you swing a bat.”
 In vain he tried to score a run; in vain he shed each tear;
 In vain he tried to reach his mask and breast protector near.
 She tagged him all around the room, no matter how he’d slide,
 And rapped out doubles on his back as viciously she cried:

Chorus.

“You uster to hit .300—O, your batting eye was great!
 The pitchers uster to jump the league when you came to the plate;
 But now they’ve got you faded, for there ain’t no guy in sight
 Can bat around three hundred, Bo, who bats around all night.”

THE TEST.

Never mind the speed you’ve got,
 Never mind about your curve,
 Though it sail around the lot
 With a zigzag and a swerve;
 How you grip or twist the ball
 Enters not upon the scroll;
 Here’s the answer to it all:
 How is your control?
Never mind how hard you swing,
 Or the keenness of your eye,
 As the pitcher takes a fling
 And the pellet whistles by;
 With the hard-fought battle done,
 Here’s the answer to it all:
 When a base hit might have won,
 Did you hit the ball?
Never mind about the luck,
 Or the umpire robbing you—
 How the Fates were there to buck
 Everything you tried to do;
 Cut it out and let it go;
 In the Book of Praise or Blame
 This is all there is to know:
 Did you play the game?

THE LAUGH ON NERO.

Among the Coliseum throng King Nero sat him down;
 A toga wrapped his shoulder blade, upon his face a frown.
 “Ho! turn the tigers loose,” he cried, “and bring the lions out!”
 At which the massive mob stood up and cheered with mighty shout.
The fiercest lions Numidia had ever grown were there,
 The most blood-thirsty Tigerines from Bengal’s far-famed lair.
 For weeks no food of any sort had been left in their cage
 To work each beast into a pitch of gnawing, clawing rage.
Out in the center of the throng the victim took his stand,
 A careless smile upon his lips, no weapon in his hand;
 He looked serenely on the mob which clamored for his gore,
 And faced the tiges with smothered yawns, unmindful of their roar.
The signal given, with a snarl each lion and tiger rushed
 Upon their prey, while all around the multitude sat hushed,

But lo, the victim stood his ground, and with a lordly air

He waved each lion and tiger back and gave them glare for glare.

While waiting for their victim to be scattered, limb from limb,
 And many Roman coins were bet on what they’d do to him.
But lo! the victim stood his ground, and with a lordly air
 He waved each lion and tiger back and gave them glare for glare.
 He listened while they growled around and howled at him a bit;
 Then pointed toward the nearest gate and simply answered, “Git!”
Before that gesture and that look—that voice so cold and keen—
 The growling monsters beat it very quickly from the scene;
 While with a bored and blasé air, unmindful of his cup,
 The victim took another “chew,” and cried, “Next batter up.”
Upon his perch King Nero sat, quite thunderstruck with awe.
 “This is the strangest gent,” said he, “that I have ever saw.
 By all the gods of ancient Rome who can this duffer be?”
 “I used to umpire,” he replied; “this job was pie for me.”

CURFEWED.

Fringed by clouds, the sun was setting
 O’er the hills so far away,
 Filling all the land with beauty
 At the close of yesterday.
 And the straggling rays, descending,
 Fell upon all fandom there—
 Fans with aching, anguished bosoms,
 Fans bowed down in bleak despair.
“Jimmy,” said a little newsboy
 To a ragged pal near by,
 Who sat frowning at the score board
 With a teardrop in his eye,
 “We ain’t got a chance to make it;”
 And his face was set and white.
 “Orth has got us on the hog train—
 Cleveland can’t win out to-night.”
Every fan from box to bleachers
 Sat in silence, sick and sore,
 As each inning sped by swiftly
 And the Naplets failed to score;
 For New York had pounded Otto
 Steadily from left to right,
 So it looked like easy money
 Cleveland wouldn’t win that night.
In the meanwhile Orth was puzzling
 Every batter on our team;
 So the chance to land a victory
 Seemed an empty, idle dream.
 Nothing doing in the seventh,
 Till at last above the crowd
 New York’s brace of luscious tallies
 Hovered like a midnight cloud.
Sitting on his bench, Clark Griffith
 Softly murmured: “Twenty-three,
 Skidoo, Larry, to the shadows
 Of the Ancient Apple Tree.”
 Mr. Orth was smiling blandly,
 With the finish just in sight,
 Thinking as he shot one over:
 “Cleveland’s out of it to-night.”
Two more rounds to make a rally,
 Two more rounds to turn the trick!
 Can you wonder for a minute
 Why the cranks were feeling sick?
 Not an echo from the grandstand,
 There was dearth of whoops and cheers,
 With the ghastly silence broken
 Only by the splashing tears.
“Batter up,” said Umpire Connor.
 Larry strode up to the plate
 With a bludgeon in his talons,
 While his teeth were clenched in hate.
 Bing! Was that another earthquake,
 Or a cyclone in the air?
 For the mighty shout that followed
 Must have rumbled through the Square.
Rossman followed and the tumult
 Grew into a maddened shout.
 Bing! The racket grew terrific;
 Two on base and no one out.
 Jackson next! And hopes long buried
 Rose anew upon the wing.
 “Soak her, Jimmy!” shrieked the rooters;
 And the echo answered: “Bing!”
Bradley forced, but Bemis singled;
 One had scored, and every sack
 Had a sprinter only waiting
 For another welcome crack.
 Tighter, tighter grew the tension;
 Stovall went to bat for Hess.
 Stovall with his little horseshoe—
 Lucky George? Well, I should guess.
Well, by now you’ve heard the story
 Of the wild throw Conroy made
 When he tagged out Harry Bemis
 And a double play essayed.
 Al Orth was a blighted being,
 Griffith’s hair turned snowy white;
 For, in place of New York winning,
 Cleveland copped the game last night.

THE FAN AND HIS WAY.

There was a fan in our town, and he was wondrous wise;
 “Aw, hit ’er out!” he’d yell in rage at every sacrifice;
 And when some player tried to bunt and got choked off at first,
 This wild-eyed fan arose in wrath, and bitterly he cursed:
“Of all the dubs as slow as tubs
 I ever saw play ball,
 Of all the jokes—the fat-head blokes—
 That guy has got the call!
 What made him spring a trick like that,
 There ain’t nobody knows.
 Chop out that bunt, you crazy runt,
 And slap it on the nose!”
There was a fan in our town, and he was wondrous wise.
 The selfsame gent that yelled in rage at every sacrifice;
 But when a player lined one out, instead of sacrificing,
 And cracked into a double play, the outburst was surprising:
“Of all the fat-heads, far and near,
 I ever saw play ball,
 Of all the mutts—the brainless butts—
 That guy has got the call!
 When it gets down to bush league work,
 That lobster takes the cake.
Why don’t you bunt, you crazy runt,
 When that’s the play to make?”
There was a fan in our town, and he had wondrous eyes,
 And when the umpire called a strike he’d howl in mad surprise;
 And on some play at second base, full fifty yards away,
 Behind the screen he’d rise in wrath, with sundry things to say:
“What? That man out? Wake up, old scout!
 No wonder we lose games!
 He had that beat a dozen feet,
 You second Jesse James!”
 Of course the umpire, on the spot,
 Could not outline the play
 Like that wise guy with eagle eye,
 Two hundred feet away.
There was a fan in our town—the team won out that night—
 He swore by all the ancient gods the bunch was out of sight;
 Next day they lost, but what he said was private information,
 Or what is technically called “unfit for publication.”
“——!——!——!
 D——!——!——!”
 And other phrases which, alas!
 I know, beyond a doubt,
 Would bring a moral shock if I
 Should fill the spaces out.

OVER THE PLATE.

Bill Jones had the speed of a cannon ball;
 He could loosen a brick from a three-foot wall.
 When he shot one across, it would hurtle by
 Too swiftly for even the surest eye.
 No one could hit him when he was right,
 As no eye could follow the ball’s quick flight.
 Bill should have starred in a big league rôle,
 But he stuck to the “minors”—he lacked control.
Jack Smith had a curve like a loop-the-loop;
 It would start for your head with a sudden swoop
 And break to your knee with a zigzag wave,
 And the league’s best batters would roar and rave
 At the jump it took and the sudden swerve.
 Shades of the Boomerang! What a curve!
 But Jack’s still doomed to a “bush league” Fate—
 He could not “get it across” the plate.
Tom Brown had both the speed and the curves,
 A combination which jarred the nerves.
 He would steam ’em by till they looked like peas,
 And they’d take a jump from your neck to your knees,
 From the best to the worst in the league—by Jing!
 He had them all in the Phantom Swing,
 But he missed the mark of the Truly Great—
 Poor Tom, he couldn’t locate the plate.
How is it with you, if I may ask?
 Have you “got control” of your daily task?
 Have you “got control” of your appetite?
 Of your temper and tongue in the bitter fight?
 Have you “got control” of your brawn and brain?
 Or are you laboring all in vain?
 It matters not what your daily rôle—
 Have you got control? Have you got control?
It counts not what you may “have,” my friend,
 When the story is told at the game’s far end;
 The greatest brawn and the greatest brain
 The world has known may be yours in vain.
 The man “with control” is the one who mounts,
 And it’s “how you use what you’ve got” that counts.
 Have you got “the bead?” Are you aiming straight?
 How much of your effort “goes over the plate?”

KNOCKING SLANG.

(Collier’s Weekly and the New York Tribune have started a crusade against slang once more, and especially the brand used in detailing ball games.)

Nix on the slang; chop out the stuff;
 That ain’t no way to pass the dope out.
 Crawl easy on this line of guff
 And push it for a gentle slope out;
 Don’t make the English spiel a joke
 By crabbing up the conversation;
 Give it a chance correctly spoke
 Without some wise mutt’s explanation.
If there is one thing puts the punk
 Kibosh upon me, it’s the geezer
 Who’s always spieling out some junk
 And running in some funny wheezer;
 Who jams in with a bunch of talk
 That listens like it had a cancer,
 Until somebody calls a balk
 And grabs a chart to pick the answer.
Why ain’t the old spiel good enough
 That’s lined out in the dictionary,
 That we must draw this cross-fire guff
 To which no sane gazabe is jerry?
 I’ll take mine in the simple buzz
 When Noah Webster led the batting.
 He had these slangsters on the buzz
 When it came down to big league chatting.
Nix on this slang; it’s on the blink,
 And my remarks are here emphatic.
 The geek who slings it through the ink
 Has beetles in his bush league attic.
 Let’s slip in on the Big Revive
 For scholarly and classic diction.
 Come on, you mutts now, with the dive
 And do a Brodie at this fiction.

THE REAL SPRINGTIME.

I do not care about the spring
 Of which the high-browed poets sing—
 Of vines, where budding blossoms cling,
 And all that sort of blooming thing.
 I care not for the triolet
 Which boosts the early violet,
 Nor buzzing bees, nor budding trees,
 Nor scented stuff upon the breeze;
 The bard who brays of meadows green
 To me is balmy in the bean.
I do not care about the spring,
 Of happy larks upon the wing,
 Of mocking birds that rise and sing,
 And all that fuzzy sort of thing;
 I care not for the “April snow,”
 Of white bloom wafted to and fro,
 “The sunlit weather,” purple heather,
 Lovers-down-the-lane-together;
 The dope who draws this brand of throb
 To me is knotty in the knob.
But hail—thrice hail—the golden spring
 Which ushers in the spitball “fling;”
 The echo of the three-base “bing,”
 Which makes the Bugland welkin ring;
 The shout across the Great Divide
 Of “Slide, you bonehead lobster, slide!”
 The mighty roar that sings the score,
 The chance to lap the umpire’s gore;
 T’ell with your mocking bird’s spring call—
 Give me the melody, “Play ball.”

THE RAVEN UP-TO-DATE.

Last night while I pondered dreary, grouchy, sore, and limp and leary,
 O’er the dope in my apartments, far up on the thirteenth floor;
 As I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
 “’Tis some bill collector,” thought I, “rapping at my chamber door—
 Only that and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, I was thinking of September,
 And the finish of the league race—what the future had in store;
 And I started prophesying where the pennant would be flying,
 Till at last I gave up trying, feeling very sad and sore,
 For the dope was so uncertain that I gave up sad and sore,
 Grumbling slowly: “Nevermore.”
As I sat there, nearly bug house, longing for a near-by jug house,
 Once again I heard the tapping, tapping at my chamber door;
So I oped it, shrinking craven, wishing for some happy haven,
 When, behold! there flapped a Raven, stalking in across the floor—
 Stalking Edgar Allen Poeish, right across my rugless floor.
 Ach, du Leiber! I was sore.
“Raven!” cried I, “why the devil have you come here? On the level,
 I thought Mr. Poe had written you would enter nevermore.
 What has brought you, you intriguer, with that look so keen and eager?
 Speak up there, you old bush leaguer; why have you returned, you bore?
 State your trouble and then skip, sir; leave me quickly, I implore!”
 Quoth the Raven: “What’s the score?”

A DAY IN THE BLEACHERS.

(Being a true chronicle of the comments offered by Mike the Bite as the game was in progress, wedged into verse.)

I.

W’at’s dat? A ball! Aw, say, yer make me weary.
 Why don’t yer call dem strikes, you Jesse James?
 No wonder dat the ball club’s lookin’ leery,
 Wid blind men on de job empirin’ games.
 I’m glad I left my watch at home, you pirate,
 When I see de style wot goes wit’ you to-day.
 Why, dat Ali Baba geezer was a fat-head bush league teaser
 When it gits down to de scientific way.

II.

Wake up, you fathead! Take a wallop at it!
 Swing at dem balls wot slopes across de plate!
 Don’t stand dere like a blear-eyed mummy—bat it!
 is ain’t no place to dream, you drunken skate.
 T’ree strikes and out, and still yer’re on de pay roll.
 I only wisht I owned dis baseball club;
 An’ de first t’ing dat I’d do would be to hitch a can to you
 ’Bout de size of Lookout Mountain, Mr. Dub.

III.

Say, dat guy playin’ second is a dandy.
 Did yer pipe him block dat bingle on de bound?
 He’s got Ted Roosevelt double-crossed fur candy
 When it comes to swingin’ hard and coverin’ ground;
But de mutt wot went and booted dat last roller—
 He’d duck to-night if I but had my wish.
 In my time I t’ink I’ve seen a bunch o’ dubs some punkerino,
 But dat feller couldn’t ketch contagious fish!

In vain I looked, but I only saw

A hat that was nine feet high or more!

A WARNING.

Makers of bonnets the women wear,
 Molders of fashion, whoe’er ye be,
 Drear is the curse of my daily prayer,
 Deep is the hatred I have for thee.
 This is the warning I fling afar:
 “Mold ’em more on a smaller plan.
 Chop off a couple of yards of ‘spar,’
 Or beware the wrath of an angry fan.”
Yesteryear to the game I went,
 Daily the pilgrimage I made.
 O what a waste of coin I spent,
 Wondering there how the game was played!
 Was it a hit or an error raw?
 Was it a stolen base or score?
 I peered in vain, but I only saw
 A hat that was nine feet wide or more!
Back to the park this spring I passed,
 Knowing the old styles out of date.
 “Now,” I thought, “I shall get at last
 A look once more at the old ‘home plate.’”
 Was it a hit or fielding flaw?
 Why the deuce did the bleachers roar?
 In vain I looked, but I only saw
 A hat that was nine feet high or more!
Makers of bonnets the women wear,
 Molders of fashion, whoe’er ye be,
 Drear is the curse of my daily prayer,
 Deep is the hatred I have for thee.
 This is the warning I hurl to-day:
 “Cut on a narrower, shorter plan;
 Chop off a couple of yards each way,
 Or beware the wrath of a maddened fan.”

OUT ON THE LINES.