Casey at the Bat
by Ernest Lawrence 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 so, 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, 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 pudding and the latter was a fake; So upon that striken 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 they saw what had occurred, There was Jimmy safe on
second, and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It bounded from
the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside,
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.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.
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.
From the benches, black with people, there went 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 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 a 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 lips, 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.
