Base-Ball Ballads/The Winter League Wonder

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
Base-Ball Ballads
by Grantland Rice
The Winter League Wonder
4544794Base-Ball Ballads — The Winter League WonderGrantland Rice

THE WINTER LEAGUE WONDER.

Though I've never won a pennant in the race that starts each spring,
And the finish every autumn finds me muchly to the "punk;"
Though through June, July, and August you can hear the anvils ring
As the critics in a body dub my team a bunch of "junk,"
You have got to hand it to me on a silver platter when
The summer scramble's over. Though some other mogul wins,
I'm the one and only wonder of the "coming season" then,
When the last real game is over and the winter league begins.

Though each October finds me under every rival's heel,
Twenty games behind the others, do I stop and shed a tear?
Not upon your uncle's portrait. I begin right off the reel
Lining up my winter legions for a "sure first next year."
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!
Every player on my pay roll is a star of purest ray,
Till they reach the field of battle, where they're slower on their "pins"
Than a stream of cold molasses, and my phenoms fade away—
But you've got to hand it to me when the winter league begins.