Thirteen to fifteen the players of Babe Ruth,
At this age little guile, you get mostly the truth,
Anxious to play and show what they got,
Comes May first and the weather turns hot,
Twenty games await through late June.
The schedule chockful of matches mostly equal,
Line them up and many the sequel,
Players all proud with caps firmly lodged,
On heads newly shaved for summer to dodge,
Chores from their mothers all real.
Three games a week were there for us all,
Greater the joy if never did fall.
The rain from dark skies,
For in there does lie,
Mischief for pitchers who throw balls.
Strikes are preferred, all kinds and all ways,
Catchers struggle if hurlers disobey,
Corners and the black,
Aim for and attack,
Hitters forlorn wave ole’.
Coaches curse softy as the kids must not hear,
Frustration builds as control disappears,,
Pitchers confound,
The strike zone rarely found,
No one in the bullpen, I fear.
Billy could throw but Monday he flung,
Three full innings, by the rules he is done,
Maybe to Jack for him to the bump,
Always reliable, never a slump,
But choir tour this week is his fun.
Now it may rain, in buckets who cares?
My pitcher is done, no innings to spare,
My bullpen is cooked,
Never mistook,
My bench for a replacement, au contraire.
Wet balls, wet boys, muck all around.
Players bag gear, thunder the sound.
Heard up above,
Players pick up gloves,
Time for a beer downtown.