Classic Poem

The Americans are wrongly supposed to be
Deficient in delicate sentiment.
For when I was in New York
I went to the Polo Grounds
To see what they call the World's Series.
One has to watch baseball every instant,
Or you miss something.
For while I was foolishly admiring
The gold frontier of sunlight receding on the turf
There was a loud cry,
A whirl of dust and limbs,
And I feared some tragic accident.
But when I asked what was amiss
The man next me, with tears in his eyes,
Said that one of the players
Had stolen home.
And I thought to myself
How charmingly touching:
Here, amid all the uproar and excitement,
This fine fellow could not resist the call of his loved ones
And sacrificed his enjoyment just to greet his wife and bairns.
There can be no question about it,
For the next morning I read an account of the game
Written by Irvin Cobb, one of their Great Mandarins,
And he wrote:
" McNally, afflicted with acute nostalgia,