The Grown-up Fan, a wealthy man, sat in his grandstand seat,
Gray hair and worry for his head, gout for his puffy feet.
Watching the New York Giants beat the Cincinnati team,
He closed his eyes an instant and he dreamed a lightning dream.
The horsehide spheres changed suddenly to battered ten-cent balls,
And spotless uniforms of white became blue overalls.
Gone were the high-priced athletes with the letters on their breasts;
A lot of urchins showed instead, minus their coats and vests—
No blue-clad umpire ran the game with frown and raucous yell—
The kids just ran the game themselves, and ran it mighty well.
“One Old Cat” and a slivered bat and shanks that scorned fatigue
Were quite the whole equipment in the famous Laddies' League.
“It's funny,” said the Grown-up Fan, his vagrant vision o'er,
“But baseball of this high-class type is something of a bore.
Maybe it's all too flawless as they run the game to-day—
It doesn't grip me, somehow, like the games we used to play.”
The Grown-up Fan, a worn old man, began his homeward climb
With memories of The Laddies' League that bars us all in time.
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