A TRAGEDY OF CENTER FIELD

HE muffed the fly that lost the game; he never did before; The boys don’t think he’ll ever be light-hearted any more. Our captain didn’t say a word; he just picked up his bat And started home with downcast head—what words could equal that? Nobody spoke on our whole side, or didn’t even ask How Stubby came to muff the fly. Bud Hicks picked up his mask And sighed an awful sorry sigh. Stub Weeks is not the same— Our boys don’t think he ever will, because he lost the game. Nobody asked him to explain. They couldn’t understand How Stubby dropped it when he had the ball right in his hand. It sailed from Pudgy Williams’ bat and soared just like a bird To center field where Stubby was. Nobody hardly stirred Because it was so critical, but Bud Hicks gave a shout, He knew a fly in center field was just as good as out When Stubby Weeks was under it. And then he gave a cry Of agony too great for words when Stubby muffed the fly. Our boys all slowly walked away, and even Red Blake’s team Were too surprised to cheer because it seemed just like a dream. And over there in center field Stub Weeks was dreaming, too, As though he was Napoleon and this was Waterloo. The blow was such an awful one he acted sort of stunned, And then he walked in from the field expecting to be shunned Forevermore by all his friends. His throat was hoarse and dry; We knew his heart was broken then because he muffed the fly. He saw us all pick up our things and walk away, and then The awful stain upon his name came back to him again. He thought of how it should have been—the loud hurrahs and cheers, And leaned against the back-stop fence and drenched it with his tears, Till all the boys felt sorry then, and told him not to mind Because the sun was in his eyes and must have made him blind. But weeks and weeks have passed since then—his heart is awful sore, Our boys don’t think he’ll ever be light-hearted any more!