Casey At The Bat
by Ernest L. Thayer
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 pall-like
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 hoodoo, while the latter
was a cake.
So upon that stricken multitude, grim
melancholy sat;
for there seemed but little chance of Casey
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 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 pounded through on 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 lit Casey's
face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he
lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in
the crowd could doubt t'was 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 flashed 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 someone
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
dun sphere 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 has fled from Casey's lip, the
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 little children shout,
but
there is no joy in Mudville --
mighty
Casey has struck out.
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