From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 21, 1915.
I hate to see the home team lose;
A contest dropped gives me blues;
But when they win—they sometimes do!
I go home happy, same as you.
Yet, after all, why should I care
Because nine men from everywhere—
Except the town in which I live—
Have acted as a human sieve
Through which the red-hot ones have poured
Like water through a leaky gourd?
And why should I bemoan the fact
That nine strong men have whacked and whacked
The summer air in vain desire
To make a showing for their hire?
Nine men I scarcely know by sight
And might not recognize tonight.
Why mourn because some other town
Has scoured the earth and found one Brown
Who throws a zigzag ball that jolts
Like lubricated thunderbolts,
While our man’s curves drift o’er the plate
In manner tempting unto fate?
Yea, verily, why should I fret?
’Tis naught to me, and yet—and yet
If you’d but seen the awful way
In which our team behaved today!
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