Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 30, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 August 1887 — A Base-Ball Sermon. [ARTICLE]

A Base-Ball Sermon.

The Rev. Mr. Woolsack, popularly known as "The Deacon,” in his sermon up the creek last Sunday, as reported by the Oil City Derrick, made a few remarks pertinent to base-ball. Pointing out of the window at a game in progress on the adjoining Wilson flats, he said: “See that loafer with the bird-cage on his head standing like a straddle-bug behind the bat. He is not desecrating the Sabbath day by playing ball, because he isn t playing ball. He can’t play. He imagines he can, of course, and goes through all the painful contortions of a real ball-player, but in the Devil’s score-book he is charged ten times over for every error he makes, and a nice record he will have when the season is over and the time for his eternal rest should be at hand. It will be a sorry rest for him.” Just then some one made a long hit aud a shout went up from the crowd. “Yes, hoopla!” yelled the deacon, raising his voice above the din, “hoopla till the cows come home, but unless you raise your voices in hosannas to the Lord you will never reach the shining home-plate of everlasting life. That was a long hit to center, and I give his nibs there credit for taking it in, but the Devil will take him in just as slick on the last inning of all. You may send in your curved balls, and smash the leather in the nose to the right or to the left field; you may steal from bag to bag and slide in home on your pantaloons, but finally you will get a goose egg in the kingdom to come. Aye, pound on the pearly gates with your base-ball bat, but if there is a shadow of a Sunday game on it down to the eternal roast you go. Saint Peter careth not whether you belong to the Snapdragons or Whangdoodles; if you swing your festive willow and pound the bags Sunday saltpeter will not save you. There goes another long hit to left, and another howl goes up from the assembled .multitude of dudes and loafers. Chase the ball; aye, leg it until your ungodly heels beat a tattoo on your coattails, but my word for it the Devil will never get away fro myour elbow. Old Clootie is a base-runner and a ball-chaser himself, and he will stay with you until his own dominions freeze over and have to be abandoned for an ice pond.” The deacon made a few more remarks, exhorting his hearers to shun the seductive ball-field and the trout pond Sunday, and announced services next Sabbath morning and evening at the red school-house in Sugarcreek.