CASEY AT THE BAT

Casey at the Bat

by Ernest Thayer

(1863-1940


ONE MAN DOES NOT MAKE A TEAM
http://al-alex-alexander-girvan.blogspot.com/2010/10/vancouver-canucks-ttrendy-choice-to-win.html

A last pitch from the mound. A final swing at bat. An old favourite from happier, simpler times: it's Casey at the bat.

It looked extremely rocky

For the Mudville nine that day;

The  score score stood two to four,

With but an inning left to play; 

So, when Cooney died at second,

And Burrrows did the same,

A pallor wreathed the features

Of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go.

Leaving there the rest,

With that hope which springs eternal

Within the human breast,

For they thought: "if only Casey

Could get a whack at that,"

They'd put up even money now,

With Casey at the Bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey,

And likewise so did Bake,

And the former was a puddin',

And the latter was a fake;

 So on that stricken multitude

A deathlike silence sat,

 For there seemed but little chance

Of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a "single,"

To the wonderment of all, 

And the much-despised Blakey

"Tore the cover of the ball,"

And when the dust had lifted

And they saw what had occurred,

There was Blakey safe at second,

And Flynn a-huggin' third.

Then, from the gladdened multitude

Went up a joyous yell,

It rumbled in the mountain tops,

It rattled in the dell;

It struck upon the hillside

And rebounded on the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey,

Was

advancing

to the

bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner

As he stepped into 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

When he wiped them on his shirt;

Then 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

Came hurtling through the air,

An' Casey stood a-watchin' it

In mighty grandeur there;

Close by the the sturdy batsman

The ball, unheeded, sped;

"That ain't my style!" said Casey;

"Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, 

There went a muffled roar

Like the beating of storm waves

On stern and distant shore;

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!"

Shouted someone on the stand;

And it's likely they'd have killed him

Had not Casey raised his hand.

With the smile of Christian Charity

Great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult,

He made the game go on;

He signalled 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 the 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 the ball bgo by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lips,

His teeth are clenched in hate;

 He pounds with cruel vengeance

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 favoured land

The sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere

And somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere man are laughing

And somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville;

Mighty Casey has struck out.