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Casey at the Bat
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| by Ernest L. Thayer |
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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 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 that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at
that--
We'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 lulu and the latter was
a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy
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 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 Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third
Then from 5,000 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 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 while 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,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty
grandeur there.
Close by 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 up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant
shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some
one on 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. |
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