Grantland Rice wasn’t from Boston, he was born in Murfreesboro, TN in1880. And I don’t think he spent much time there. Nevertheless, in the following poem “Beating ‘Em To It” he somehow picked up at least a slight Boston accent. The poem appeared in The Winning Shot, a book written by Jerome Travers which I have mentioned in previous Posts. Rice’s poetry is sprinkled through out the book’s pages.
BEATING ‘EM TO IT
Yes Pal, I know just how it was–you should have won a mile;
You had him trimmed ten ways on form and twenty ways on style;
You had him stewed into a trance–you had him strung until
You went and blew a ten-inch putt where something tipped the pill;
A putt you wouldn’t miss again the whole blank summer long–
A pop-eyed pipe to anchor– am I right or am I wrong?
I get you pal–don’t say a word–he wasn’t in your class;
You had no less than twelve bad kicks that plunked you in the grass;
While you were straight upon the pin, he foozled every shot,
But somehow skidded on the green and gathered in the pot;
No not a word; I know, old top–your case is nothing new–
I know, because each time I lose they beat me that way, too.
Now that golf season has begun,keep the poem in mind when you have one of those matches or one of those days.