“When Father Played Baseball,” by Edgar Albert Guest

When I first started reading this poem by Edgar Guest, the first stanza gave me the impression that this would be about a man who used baseball as an analogy through which to teach his children important lessons about life. Boy, was I wrong. As I read on, I found myself smiling a bit, and even had to chuckle by the end.

Enjoy.

*

The smell of arnica is strong,

And mother’s time is spent

In rubbing father’s arms and back

With burning liniment.

The house is like a druggist’s shop;

Strong odors fill the hall,

And day and night we hear him groan,

Since father played baseball.

He’s forty past, but he declared

That he was young as ever;

And in his youth, he said, he was

A baseball player clever.

So when the business men arranged

A game, they came to call

On dad and asked him if he thought

That he could play baseball.

“I haven’t played in fifteen years,

Said father, “but I know

That I can stop the grounders hot,

And I can make the throw.

I used to play a corking game;

The curves, I know them all;

And you can count on me, you bet,

To join your game of ball.”

On Saturday the game was played,

And all of us were there;

Dad borrowed an old uniform,

That Casey used to wear.

He paid three dollars for a glove,

Wore spikes to save a fall

He had the make-up on all right,

When father played baseball.

At second base they stationed him;

A liner came his way;

Dad tried to stop it with his knee,

And missed a double play.

He threw into the bleachers twice,

He let a pop fly fall;

Oh, we were all ashamed of him,

When father played baseball.

He tried to run, but tripped and fell,

He tried to take a throw;

It put three fingers out of joint,

And father let it go.

He stopped a grounder with his face;

Was spiked, nor was that all;

It looked to us like suicide,

When father played baseball.

At last he limped away, and now

He suffers in disgrace;

His arms are bathed in liniment;

Court plaster hides his face.

He says his back is breaking, and

His legs won’t move at all;

It made a wreck of father when

He tried to play baseball.

The smell of arnica abounds;

He hobbles with a cane;

A row of blisters mar his hands;

He is in constant pain.

But lame and weak as father is,

He swears he’ll lick us all

If we dare even speak about

The day he played baseball.