Base-Ball Ballads/On the Road to Rooters' Row

by Grantland Rice

 

ON THE ROAD TO ROOTERS' ROW.
(Letting Mr. Kipling in, of course, on a bit of the graft.)

I.
In each 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.