Base-Ball Ballads/The Winter League Wonder
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.