I have pitched to the stars of our national game, I have pitched them to ruin and pitched them to shame. They laughed when they faced me, so proud of their strength, Not knowing, poor fools, I would get them at length. I have pitched men off pinnacles scaled in long years. I have pitched those they loved into oceans of tears. Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be, But where in the world is a pitcher like me? SUNDAY BASEBALL The East Side Slashers were playing the Terrors, Piling up hits, assists and errors; Far from their stuffy tenement homes That cluster thicker than honeycombs, They ran the bases like busy bees, Fanned by the Hudson's cooling breeze. Mrs. Hamilton-Marshall-Gray, Coming from church, chanced to pass that way. She saw the frolicking urchins there, Their shrill cries splitting the Sabbath air. "Mercy!" she murmured, "this must stop!" Then promptly proceeded to call a cop; And the cop swooped down on the luckless boys, Stopping their frivolous Sunday joys. Mrs. Hamilton-Marshall-Gray Spoke to her coachman and drove away Through beautiful parks, o'er shady roads, Past splashing fountains and rich abodes. Reaching her home, she was heard to say "How awful to break the Sabbath day!" The Slashers and Terrors, side by side, Started their stifling subway ride Down through the city, ever down To the warping walls of Tenement Town. Reaching their homes, the troublesome tots Crept away to their shabby cots And dreamed of the grass and the droning bees, The pure, cool air and the waving trees, And how they had played their baseball game Till the Beautiful Christian Lady came. THE BIG LEAGUE You want to play in the Big League, boy? I guess that you will some day, For you've shown the speed the managers need And the lightning brain (the managers' creed), And the heart that will bid you stay. But when you go to the Big League, boy, And play on the Big League grounds, As the seasons roll you will pay the toll From your fresh young nerves and your clean young soul, Till your pulse less buoyantly bounds. And you'll learn strange things in the Big League, boy, The cream of the good and bad; You will come to know, in that shifting show, The things that I learned in the long ago When I, too, was a careless lad. For I came to play in the Big League, boy, And I played my string to the end. To eyes divine where the white lights shine I mumbled toasts over bubbling wine-- And finished minus a friend. You want to play in the Big League, boy? I guess that you will, some day, And this is the prayer of an old-time player-- None was stronger and none was gayer-- God help you along your way. THE BALLAD OF THE MINOR LEAGUER