English poem
The Law Of Averages
by William Frederick Kirk (1877–1927)
The Winter League is here again, and in his native town The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down.
* * *
Spike Mulligan, the shortstop brave, who led the league in hitting, And drew one thousand bones a month for tending to his knitting, Is working in the corner store, slaving to beat the band, And drawing fifteen seeds a month for selling sugared sand. O'Halloran, the pitcher, who was certainly a hummer, And got a prince's ransom for the work he did last Summer, Is keeping books this Winter for a shop that deals in buckets, And getting for the same each month as much as twenty ducats. McGonnigal, the fielder fleet, who hit like mad all season, And got a monthly envelope that seemed beyond all reason, Is driving team in Grangerville, and adding to his hoard By drawing down a salary of five a week and board. McGinn, the famous backstop, who could throw so well to bases, And who received last season fifty-seven hundred aces, Is throwing cordwood on a sled, far from the rooters' gaze, And getting eighteen dollars cash for every thirty days.
* * *
The Winter League is here again, and in his native town The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down.