Category: Sports

The painter’s brush moves listlessly;
I speak, but he isn’t hearing me:
There’s a radio on in that house, you see,
And the Series is more important.

A roofer’s hammer suspends in air,
And I can tell by the tension there
That he’s at an eastern Ball-park, where
The Series is more important.

A man mixing mortar pauses , too,
And grins, as he yells, “That run makes two ?
The house, you say? We ‘ll get it for you–
But the Series is more important.”

Then, he who didn’t show up at all-To
sit and listen to baseball–
Knows the house was to have been done this fall,
But the Series is more important.

The winter is coming on apace ,
And many an American has no space
To lay his head–but if you’ve a place,
Then the Series is more important.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 15, 1946

I am lousy at badminton,
Teamed up or solo;
Not much good at tennis,
And worse yet at polo;

I’m too old for baseball,
Or football or hockey,
And with this overweight,
Couldn’t sit as a jockey;

I have won me no battles
In rings or outside them;
Curling, jai a-lai and cricket–
I haven’t yet tried them.

Who watches me fly-cast
Risks straining a gusset,
And as for my bowling,
Please let’s not discuss it.

Yet I have me one asset
This true fan is prizing:
In any sport you may name,
I’m a whiz at advising.

by Ray Romine Friday, February 8, 1952

Oh let’s take that trip to Bermuda,
And so get away from it all–
Especially that guy in the office
Who blats all day long of… BASEBALL.

For it’s baseball he plays at the cooler;
It’s baseball he’s at as he works;
It’s baseball he talks to the bosses,
With sly winks and nudges and smirks.

The first thing each morning, he’s at it,
Taking last evening’s shindy apart;
Until, when we dodge him at lunch-time,
All of us know it by heart.

He doesn’t walk in his sleep–he runs bases.
His mentality’s geared to the game:
“You shoulda seen Urgumwitz slug it,
And the pitchin’ by—uh—whut’s his name.

“That run we pulled off in the seventh;
That double we sprung in the third—“
And though I’m eleven desks from him,
I still catch his every word.

The afternoon wears away slowly–
I’m weary at four, but HIM? He’s
Tearing around in the outfield,
His tongue hanging down to his knees.

The players may call the game over;
The umpires their way homeward wend;
But Jamesy will keep the play going–
Day after day without end.

Yes, LET’S take that trip to Bermuda,
And LET’S get away from it all–
September; –baseball’s about over,
But YOU KNOW WHAT THEY PLAY IN THE FALL!!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 13, 1944

The umpire is a fellow who’s
Become inured to snarls and boo’s.
He isn’t fair; he’s off the beam;
He sides with the opposing team.
Instead of sympathy, derision
Is his lot for his lack of vision.
His life’s a thrill, though, wondering what’ll
Come his way next–bouquet or bottle.

by Ray Romine Thursday, June 22, 1950

The referee’s blown his last whistle;
The goal posts have even succumbed;
And over a hot cup of coffee
This spectator’s getting un-numbed.

But saying the ball game is over
Is scarcely the term, so to speak:
Wherever alumni shall gather,
The re-hash is good for a week!

by Ray Romine Thursday, September 24, 1953

Dear friends with tennis tables,
You’ll wear me out no more;
But please don’t snort I am no sport–
From here in, I keep score…

by Ray Romine Tuesday, July 10, 1951