Casey at the Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.  The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that,
They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a pudd'n and the latter was a fake,
So upon the stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little hope of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much-despised, tore the cover off the ball.
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a mighty yell,
It rumbled in the valley and it rattled on the dell,
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled on the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped up to his place,
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face,
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded as he wiped them on his shirt.
And when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere comes hurtling through the air,
And Casey stands a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded spied...
"That ain't my style," said Casey.  "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there arose a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on some stern and distant shore.
"Kill him!  Kill the umpire!" shouted someone in the stand,
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on,
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville...mighty Casey has struck out!

-- Ernest L. Thayer, composed in 1888
There are monuments to
"Casey" all over the country.
Above, is a statue dedicated
to him in Mudville, MA; left, a
Casey at the Bat monument in
the home of Little League
baseball, Williamsport, PA.;
right, a monument in Rock Hill,
SC; below, is a US postage
stamp in honor of Casey.
I loved the game...I'd have played for free and worked for food.  
It was the game, the parks, the smells, the sounds...and it was
the crowd, the excitement of them rising as one when the ball
was hit deep.  The sound was like a chorus.  Then there was the
chug-a-lug of the tin lizzies in the parking lots, and the hotels with
their brass spittoons in the lobbies and brass beds in the rooms.  
It makes me tingle all over like a kid on his way to his first
double-header, just to talk about it.
-- Joe Jackson, "Shoeless
Joe Jackson" by W. P. Kinsella
Music:  Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Friday's Journal
Whispers - Home
Old New Orleans
The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball.  
America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers.  It's been
erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again.  But baseball
has marked the time.  This field, this game, is a part of our past,
Ray.  It reminds us of all that once was good and that could be
again.  Oh, people will come, Ray.  People will most definitely
-- Terrance Mann in the movie, "Field of Dreams"
It is designed to break your heart.  The game begins in the
spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the
summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then, as soon as
the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall all
-- A. Bartlett Giamatati, "The Green Fields of the Mind"
Print by Currier and Ives, "Grand match for the championship at Elysian Fields, Hoboken, NJ"