A Baseball Fan’s Diary

While writing for The Cleveland News in 1907, Grantland Rice wrote a poem–“A Baseball FAn’s Diary”– that summed up how many thought–and still think–about their home team throughout the course of the season.

Grantland Rice

April Fifteenth

Hurrah!  The season’s started!  The opening game’s to-day!

The fans are swarming to the park to see our heroes play;

The whole darn town is turning out to get in on the fun.

And cheer the team that has the flag already good and won.

They have a silver loving cup for Johnson, and a cane

For every other player; oh, they’re raving, wild, insane;

They’re cheering like Comanches, all impatient for the fray.

To see our team jump in and take the field on opening day.

May Fifteenth

Cheer up, the race ain’t over yet, although our prospect’s frayed;

What matter if the team has dropped the first twelve games they’ve played.

It makes no difference, rooters, that we’re on the bottom rung;

Remember, fans, before you knock, the season’s very young.

June Fifteenth

Say, Johnson, fire that Riley; he’s a lemon through and through.

Who told you Smith could play the game?  And Jones is rotten too.

Can that big dub Jackson now, and throw him off the nine;

The infield you have signed for us is something of a shine.

July First

I’ve seen some awful yellow teams in my day, I’ll admit;

But this bunch couldn’t catch a cold; they neither field nor hit.

Say, this is on the level—I could not believe my eyes

The day I saw that outfield squad drop fourteen easy flies.

When a shortstop makes twelve errors in one game, he’s getting stale;

The time has come to ride him out of town on a rail.

And when a pitcher passes up a dozen men per game—

I wouldn’t like to say it, but I know his proper name.

July Fifteenth

Say, fire that Johnson right away, you guys that own the club;

He’s nothing but a wooden-headed, drunken, brainless dub.

He’s a holy show as manager, as I said from the first;

You’ve got to hand it to him as the one and only worst.

October First

Hurrah!  The season’s over, and I’m glad the race is past.

I know we finished in the rut this year—a hopeless last!

We didn’t do a blooming thing but hit the chutes and slump;

But next year keep your eye on us—we’ll  be there from the jump.

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