Base-Ball Ballads/The Love Sonnets of a Son of Swat

by Grantland Rice

 

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.