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In thim days our fav'rite spoort was playin' solytare, winnin' money fr'm each other, an' no wan th' worse off. Ivry-body was invious iv us. We didn't care f'r th' big game goin' on in th' corner. Whin it broke up in a row we said: 'Gintlemen, gintlemen! an' maybe wint over an' grabbed somebody's stake. But we cudden't stand it anny longer.
"Th' reason th' New York jood thinks marrid men oughtn't to be in pollytics is because he thinks pollytics is spoort. An' so it is. But it ain't amachoor spoort, Hinnissy. They don't give ye a pewter mug with ye'er name on it f'r takin' a chanst on bein' kilt. 'Tis a profissional spoort, like playin' base-ball f'r a livin' or wheelin' a thruck.
Catchin' fish for a business I can understand: you got to do that for money, which is the first thing in life; an' when you're married, the woman sees that you don't shirk it. But you make me laugh, puttin' on airs an' pretendin' to do it for spoort "Wimmen ha'n't got no sense o' spoort," says you, all solemn as owls. Soon as a boy turns fourteen he takes up the trick.
'Tis a good principle, though I wanst knew a man be th' name iv Solomon Felsenthal, that was known in th' ring as Mike Gallegher, th' Tipp'rary Cyclone, as a thribute to th' feelin's iv th' pathrons iv spoort; an', if Jools had thried to carry out his platform with Solly, they'd be no siege in Fort Chabrool. Not anny.
All they want is a chanst to go out to th' cimitry; an', faith, who doesn't enjoy that? No wan that's annything iv a spoort. "I know hundherds iv thim. Ye know Pat Doherty, th' little man that lives over be Grove Sthreet. He inlisted three times, by dad, an' had to stand on his toes three times to pass. He was that ager.
The invalid chuckled, until her old head in its white mob-cap nodded against the white pillow propping it. 'I married three men mysel' in my time, as you d' know; an' if either wan had been rich enough to leave me a pianner, I'd ha' married three more. . . . What tickles me is you men with your talk o' spoort.
'They'se a couple iv good wans on at th' op'ra house to-night, an' if his Spiklets don't tin-can 'tis like findin' money in an ol' coat that 'Fightin', says th' editor, 'is a crool an' onchristyan spoort, he says.
Jack said indignantly, "there be no sport in it. It is brutal cruelty." "The match be got to be fought out," another said, "unless Bill Haden throws up the sponge for his dog." "Come," Tom Walker said putting his hand on Jack's shoulder, "get out o' this; if it warn't for Bill Haden I'd knock thee head off. We be coom to see spoort, and we mean to see it." "Spoort!" Jack said passionately.
'They can't beat him. 'Who? says I. 'Winter, iv coorse. 'Is he a nice man? says I. 'Wan iv th' finest men on earth, he says. 'A spoort, too, he says. 'An' liberal. "He was in here iliction day, an' I had Hinnissy's kid runnin' fr'm th' station with rayturns. Maloney was talkin' to th' crowd an' buyin' dhrinks.
He had an eye-glass pinned to his face an' he niver even smiled whin a young gintleman fr'm Harvard threw a sledge hammer wan mile, two inches. A fine la-ad, that Harvard man, but if throwin' th' hammer's spoort, thin th' rowlin' mills is th' athletic cintre iv our belovid counthry.
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