GRANTLAND RICE
LISTEN, fanatics, and you shall hear Of the midnight slide of Paul Revere;
How he scored from first on an outfield drive
By a dashing spring and a headlong dive
’Twas the greatest play pulled off that year.
Now the home of poets and potted beans,
Of Emersonian ways and means
In baseball epic has oft been sung
Since the days of Criger and old Cy Young;
But not even fleet, deer-footed Bay
Could have pulled off any such fancy play
As the slide of P. Revere, which won
The famous battle of Lexington.
The Yanks and the British were booked that trip
In a scrap for the New World championship;
But the British landed a bit too late,
So the game didn’t open till half past eight,
And Paul Revere was dreaming away
When the umpire issued his call for play.
On, on they fought, ’neath the Boston moon,
As the British figured, “Not yet, but soon;”
For the odds were against the Yanks that night,
With Paul Revere blocked away from the fight
And the grandstand gathering groaned in woe,
While a sad wail bubbled from Rooters’ Row.
But wait! Hist! Hearken! and likewise hark!
What means that galloping near the park?
What means that cry of a man dead sore?
“Am I too late? Say, what’s the score?”
And echo answered both far and near,
As the rooters shouted: “There’s Paul Revere!”
Oh how sweetly that moon did shine
When P. Revere took the coaching line!
He woke up the grandstand from its trance
And made the bleachers get up and dance;
He joshed the British with robust shout
Until they booted the ball about.
He whooped and he clamored all over the lot,
Till the score was tied in a Gordian knot.
Now, in this part of the “Dope Recooked”
Are the facts which history overlooked—
How Paul Revere came to bat that night
And suddenly ended the long-drawn fight;
How he singled to center, and then straightway
Dashed on to second like Harry Bay;
Kept traveling on, with the speed of a bird,
Till he whizzed like a meteor, rounding third.
“Hold back, you lobster!” but all in vain
The coachers shouted in tones of pain;
For Paul kept on with a swinging stride,
And he hit the ground when they hollered: “Slide!”
Spectacular players may come and go
In the hurry of Time’s swift ebb and flow;
But never again will there be one
Like the first American “hit and run.”
And as long as the old game lasts you’ll hear
Of the midnight slide of P. Revere.