HE'S OUT there, freezing on the chilly bleachers, In April days, and in October, too— And he is there in June, July, and August, When the broiling sun just bakes him through and through. He knows the game—at least, he knows he knows it— And he delivers barrels of advice, He tells how every play should be accomplished, And his hints—he thinks—put every win on ice! He roasts the magnates and he broils the umpires— And a bone-play gets a simple call— Yet we smile upon him and forgive his summer madness— But for him, there wouldn't be a game at all— But for him and for the money that he brings us, Where would be this good old game of ball? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS OF EXPERIENCE: INTRODUCTION by WILLIAM BLAKE URANIA; THE WOMAN IN THE MOON: THE FOURTH CANTO, OR LAST QUARTER by WILLIAM BASSE TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON by AMBROSE BIERCE MESSAGES by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE THE DIREFUL TALE OF HORROR by BERTON BRALEY THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: SORCERY by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |