Casey at the Bat
Ernest
Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasnÕt
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 Barrows
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 -
WeÕd put up even money now with Casey at the
bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former
was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim
melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of CaseyÕs 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 the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second
and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there
rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey,
mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in CaseyÕs manner as
he stepped into his place;
There was pride in CaseyÕs bearing and a smile on
CaseyÕs face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his
hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt Ôtwas Casey at the bat.
Ten
thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousands
tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing
pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in CaseyÕs eye, a
sneer curled CaseyÕs lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere cam hurtling
through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur
there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded speed-
ÒThat ainÕt
my style,Ó said Casey. ÒStrike one,Ó the umpire said.
From the benches,
black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the
storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
ÒKill him! Kill the umpire!Ó
shouted someone on the stand;
And itÕs likely theyÕd have killed him had not
Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great CaseyÕs 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 ignore it
and the umpire said, ÒStrike Two.Ó
ÒFraud!Ó cried the maddened thousands,
and echo answered,
ÒFraud!Ó 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 wouldnÕt let the ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from CaseyÕs 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 CaseyÕs 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.