A poem composed by Grantland Rice in The Nashville Tennessean in 1909:
I know just how a fellow feels the cold gray ‘morning after;’ when all about the ceiling reels there’s little show for laughter;
I know just how it hits a guy when bills begin to grow, and bill collectors on the sly line up in motley row;
I know exactly how he feels when up and down they face him, and with a line of endless spiels they follow him and chase him;
But in the line of ticklish deals that send one to the mat, I wonder how the pitcher feels when Wagner comes to bat?
I know about how Roosevelt feels out in the jungled space, with boa constrictors at his heels and hippos at his face.
I know how it would strike me out in some wild western lair, if I should swiftly turn about, and face a grizzly bear, or walking down a street high-fenced, with no long stretch to run, should find my features pressed against an automatic gun;
But in the line of ticklish deals that leave one feeling flat, I wonder how a pitcher feels when Wagner comes to bat?