Tag: Casey at the Bat

Ken Burns’s Baseball: The Second Inning

October 15, 2017

 

Gushing with patriotism, the Second Inning of Baseball: A Film by Ken Burns begins with proclamations of the game of baseball being America’s “safety valve” and a montage of old baseball photos being scrolled to the sound of the national anthem and a spoken list of various American accomplishments during the early twentieth century.

Not all was perfect in the country, however, as Burns also points to an increase in racism across America, the growth of tenements, and a decline in baseball’s popularity.  As it always does, however, baseball managed to recover.  It was a time when small ball dominated the style of play, and pitchers like Christy Mathewson, “Three Finger” Brown, and Walter Johnson became legends on the mound.

Major league baseball entered the twentieth century in trouble, beset by declining attendance, rowdyism, unhappy players, and feuding, greedy club owners, but then divided itself in two, cleaned itself up, and succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. The World Series began, and season after season more than five million fans filled stadiums to see their heroes play, and countless millions more, who had never been lucky enough to watch them in person, followed their every move in the sports pages.

In part two of this documentary series, we see the rise of players like Honus Wagner and Ty Cobb, two of the most diametrically different players as the game has ever seen.  We meet player-manager John McGraw, who approached the game with a furious kind of passion recognized throughout baseball.  The “Christian Gentleman,” Christy Mathewson, also appeared on the scene playing for McGraw, and his precise pitching captured the attention of teams and fans across America.  Together, Mathewson and McGraw’s Giants dominated the sport.

2nd inningWe also see the rise of Ban Johnson and the American League.  The National Agreement brought peace between the new AL and the older National League, though the reserve clause remained intact, leaving ballplayers themselves with no voice in the administrative side of the game.  And to no one’s surprise, I’m sure, overpriced concessions have been a staple of ballparks since the game became a business.  This time period saw the introduction of hot dogs, served to fans in buns to allow them to hold them while watching baseball.

Once again, we see descriptions of racism in baseball followed closely by an update on the life of Branch Rickey.  Burns hints at the impact of seeing discrimination on Rickey’s views.  Later in this disc, there is a more in-depth discussion of black baseball, including the creation of the Negro Leagues led by Rube Foster.  The documentary also introduces (though it really doesn’t dive much into) the concept of “bloomer girls,” women playing baseball during this time period.

Some of the most recognizable pieces in baseball pop culture also came into existence in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries.  Franklin Pierce Adams’s poem, “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon,” also known as “Tinker to Evers to Chance,” was written in 1910, Ernest Thayer’s iconic poem “Casey At the Bat” (1888) was recited frequently by performers, and Jack Norworth’s “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” became the game’s anthem.

The Second Inning ends at the conclusion of the 1909 season, following a discussion of Fred Merkle’s 1908 boner and a more direct rivalry between Ty Cobb and Honus Wagner in the 1909 World Series.  It’s hard to tell if Burns is particularly fascinated by Cobb, or if there are just too many good stories there to ignore, but Cobb does garner a fair amount of attention in this inning.  Not that I’m complaining — I wouldn’t have wanted to play against him (and probably not even with him), but Cobb does add some color to the game’s history.

“Casey’s Comeback,” by Steve Humphrey

September 25, 2017

Every now and  then I come across a spin-off of Ernest Thayer’s “Casey At the Bat.”  It’s fun to read the different perspectives on what might have happened next for poor Casey after that infamous outing.  This piece was written in 2013 by Steve Humphrey of Pacifica, California.

*

Many years had come and gone since Mudville lost that game

To get that far and fall just short, twas Casey some would blame

But most the fans were faithful for years they endured the pain

Their cursed up strugglin’ franchise was an insult to the game

But thru this redwood valley and along the ocean shore

Could it be that Casey this mountain of a man

Would come on out of hiding and deal another hand

But would these fans accept him could he get another cheer

Or would they not forget the fear of yesteryear

But light is shinning on him now the scars they did heal

As Casey started working out to catch that former zeal

He had but months to ready himself as spring was getting near

The workouts were so intensified his mission would not veer

He said no no to candy and certainly no to fries

And munched down all his salad and pushed away the pies

Is Casey really coming back screamed a patron of many years

As 20 heads tuned around they couldn’t believe their ears

This word it traveled fast from the market to the pews

From Robby Joe the Blacksmith to Mike who sells the shoes

Opening day’s upon us now as Casey made the team

It’s been years since they’d seen him, he still looks lean and mean

The season starts out slow again it looks like dejavoo

The fans are all tensed up inside yet no one hears a boo

They find themselves in last again as a few fans they do frown

And some guys to find comfort read the standings upside down

But through this dirt and dust and palms of grimy spit

The Mudville fans were taking favor to their team that just won’t quit

Then one game they were down by 12 and defeat was right upon ’em

This team they said in unison we got’em where we want ’em

They rise up in the standings now this team keeps showing promise

As the crowds keep growing larger there is no doubting Thomas

And now the season’s winding down and one thing is for certain

If they keep up with this winning first place they’ll be a flirtin’

Oh now the final week is here they still are in the thicket

The hardcore fans are camping out to try and get a ticket

The team is oh so unified and have each other’s back

With Casey in the middle the leader of the pack

And now their rivals come to them it is the final game

To see who gets the glory to see who gets the fame

They gather on the hilltops and nearby houses too

Some will even climb the trees for a desperate kind of view

Others find a knothole or spy a vacant crack

Some are a top the train cars some stand on a back

Every Royal rooter is gathered here today

No matter what the cost they’ll find a way to pay

The fans are growing restless now they go from pale to white

Adrenaline keeps a rising no fingernail left in sight

And now they sing the Anthem as tension starts to build

And now they introduce the players as home team takes the field

At last the game is underway at last the game is here

Does Mudville have the fortitude can they persevere

The game it starts out slowly now as Mudville gets behind

Their pitcher is a reeling for the plate he cannot find

A flair to the left an error to the right and even a whimpy dinker

Says a fan up in the stands “this game might be a stinker”

The baseball Gods that are out today have really pulled the rug out

As the Mudville players keep praying “just get us in the dugout”

Now the Mudville team is batting and are looking for a hero

And when the inning ends it’s just another zero

The game it Soldiers on, have the fans lost their glee

It’s the bottom of the ninth and Mudville’s down by three

But a spark deep down ignites them and soon the bags are loaded

The fan are going crazy, the older ones have coded

But when Taylor pops it up and Daniels does the same

Another at bat like that could end this chilling game

The Mudville fans are reeling now, could this be their fate

As Casey leaves the deck and taps his bat upon the plate

The pitchers name is Johnny, his face does show the look

As catcher signals him to throw that 12/6 hook

Now the ball comes spinning in it’s bending like a bow

As Casey looks upon it and decides to let it go

The ump he calls strike 1 the fans don’t think it’s true

’til Casey takes that same ol’ pitch and now it’s 0 and 2

But Casey keeps his faith, the fat lady she ain’t sing’n

Just one mistake from Johnny and Casey he’ll be swing’n

In eager anticipation no desire to be the bum

Casey waits in ready, in hopes of what’s to come

His hands are clenched around the bat his knuckles are snowy white

If this pitcher serves it up he’ll swing with all his might

“Come on” said Haley who was Casey’s longtime girl

“The heater may be coming, focus on the pearl”

And now the pitch is coming it’s looking like a beam

It’s smoking like a comet it’s followed by some steam

And just like that this pitch puts Johnny’s team in peril

As Casey hits the ball right upon the barrel

The sound it makes is different in fact it’s kind of eerie

How can a human being unleash this kind of fury

10,000 jaws were dropping they couldn’t believe their eyes

For when that ball had left the park it still was on the rise

The fans they jumped they hugged they cried then fell into a scream

Then poured onto the field to greet their Mudville team

They carried Casey on their shoulders for at least an hour or two

So never give up fight the fight and your dreams may come true

This day in baseball: “Casey At the Bat” is published

June 3, 2016

I’ve done a handful of posts about the poem “Casey At the Bat” by Ernest L. Thayer.  The poem first appeared in the San Francisco Examiner  on June 3, 1888, originally published under the pen name “Phin” because Thayer felt embarrassed to have written what he considered “bad verse.”  When others came forward to claim the work as their own, however, Thayer revealed himself as the true author.

To celebrate the anniversary of this classic poem, here’s a recording of James Earl Jones reciting the piece.  (And, yes, it’s pretty awesome.)

“Casey in the Box,” by Meyer Berger

March 19, 2015

Here is another spin off the Casey at the Bat poem, featuring Hugh Casey of the 1941 Brooklyn Dodgers in Game 4 of the World Series against the New York Yankees.  Originally published in the New York Times, this piece chronicles that fateful moment in the top of the ninth, when Dodgers catcher Mickey Owen failed to corral a strike three pitch, which allowed Tommy Henrich to reach first with two outs.  The Dodgers wound up losing their 4-3 lead, and New York went on to win the game, 7-4.

**

The prospects seemed all rosy for the Dodger nine that day,
Four to three the score stood, with one man left to play.
And so when Sturm died and Rolfe the Red went out,
In the tall weeds of Canarsie you could hear the Dodgers’ shout.

A measly few got up to go as screaming rent the air. The rest
Were held deep-rooted by Fear’s gnaw eternal at the human breast.
They thought with Henrich, Hugh Casey had a cinch.
They could depend on Casey when things stood in the pinch.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stood there in the box.
There was pride in Casey’s bearing, from his cap down to his sox.
And when, responding to the cheers, he took up his trousers’ sag.
No stranger in the crowd could doubt, he had them in the bag.

Sixty thousand eyes were on him when Casey toed the dirt.
Thirty thousand tongues applauded as he rubbed his Dodger shirt.
Then while the writhing Henrich stood swaying at the hip.
Contempt gleamed high in Casey’s eye. A sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Henrich stood awaiting it, with pale and frightened stare.
Close by the trembling Henrich the ball unheeded sped.
“He don’t like my style,” said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.

From the benches black with people there went up a muffled roar,
Like the thunder of dark storm waves on the Coney Island shore.
“Get him! Get him, Casey!” shouted someone in the stand.
Hugh Casey smiled with confidence. Hugh Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of kindly charity Great Casey’s visage shone.
He stifled the Faithful’s screaming. He bade the game go on.
He caught Mickey Owen’s signal. Once more the spheroid flew.
But Henrich still ignored it. The umpire bawled, “Strike two!”

“Yay!” screamed the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, ”YAY!”
But another smile from Casey. He held them undeer sway.
They saw his strong jaws tighten. They saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Hughie Casey would get his man again.

Pale as the lily Henrich’s lips; his teeth were clenched in hate.
He pounded with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now Great Casey held the ball, and now he let it go,
And Brooklyn was shattered by the whiff of Henrich’s blow.

But Mickey Owen missed this strike. The ball rolled far behind.
And Henrich speeded to first base, like Clipper on the wind.
Upon the stricken multitude grim melancholy perched.
Dark disbelief bowed Hughie’s head. It seemed as if he lurched.

DiMaggio got a single. Keller sent one to the wall.
Two runs came pounding o’er the dish and oh, this wasn’t all.
For Dickey walked and Gordon a resounding double smashed.
And Dodger fans were sickened. And Dodger hopes were bashed.

Oh somewhere North of Harlem the sun is shining bright.
Bands are playing in the Bronx and up there hearts are light.
In Hunt’s Point men are laughing, on the Concourse children shout.
But there is no joy in Flatbush. Fate had knocked their Casey out.

“Kasey At The Bat (A Communist Fable),” by Robert L. Harrison

January 29, 2015

Given the long history between the United States and Russia/U.S.S.R., I could not help but chuckle in amusement as I read this piece.  In this poem, Robert L. Harrison parodies the classic poem to give us an idea of what it would have looked like had Casey played in the Soviet Union.

*

The game was going badly for the Moscow Nine
That day,
For Gorky Park had no lights and darkness was on
Its way.
While the sun was setting only Kasey was left
To bat,
A former little leaguer from a Georgia team
At that.

A Cossack got fed up and soon
He disappeared,
The rest clung to their commie hopes for losing was what
They feared,
They thought if only comrade Kasey could get a whack
At that,
We’d bet every ruble now with Kasey at
The bat.

And by the old Russian Gods was that Popovich
On third,
A speck of a human shadow who was faster than
A bird.
So while Kasey missed a bunt, in came
flying “Pop”,
Who was tagged out as poor Kasey took
A flop.

Now the reds were quiet in this adventure
Towards eve,
Until Ivan, a party member shouted
“We gotta believe.”
Then that peasant Kasey took another swing
And missed,
Causing every commissar to scream
“You son of a vitch.”

Then from the Cuban advisors there rose up a
Spanish curse,
That caused the K.G.B. agents to make a
Body search.
Which embarrassed every player, so they covered up
Their ears,
For they and the might Kasey only
Wanted cheers.

There was ease in Kasey’s manner as he showed his
Yellow teeth,
Even his manager smiled while surrounded by the
Secret police.
But the vodka was not selling and soon it would
Be dark,
So that bear of a pitcher unloaded his
Next dart.

Now fifteen-thousand matches struck to light up
That stadium,
As the umpire from Chernobyl lit up with
Some radium.
So now this baseball drama unfolded in the good
Old U.S.S.R,
And “playball” they did on land that once belonged to
The Czar.

Now future visions of his own dacha dangled in
Kasey’s head,
Helloooooooooooo to glasnost thought this
Friendly red.
Then Kasey prayed for his wood to meet
It’s mate,
For life for him forever would be a piece
Of cake.

Now in the dusk, the wind did stir and electrify
The air,
And in the sky, the Cossack caps were flying without
A care.
For contact was made with Kasey’s bat, a sphere flew up into
The night,
And a roar came from the bleacher seats, to the Moscow
Nines delight.

But where the hell was Kasey? On the bases
He disappeared,
Even the Cuban advisors stopped looking and had
A beer.
Then Radio Free Moscow quit transmitting
The game,
So patrons in the Red Square would soon forget
His name.

Oh, somewhere icons are tearing and refusenicks
Picket on,
And soldiers fight for the party, not knowing they
Were conned.
But what about poor Kasey, why did he never score
At all?
The next day by second base they found him, he was hit by his
Own ball.

Now somewhere in Siberia, where the snow is wet
And wild,
Where the timber wolf howls at the moon, and children
Never smile.
Somewhere in that frozen place, before the
Bering Sea,
You’ll find the mighty Kasey, playing on a
Gulag team.

“Game Called,” by Grantland Rice

September 12, 2014

I stumbled across this piece last night and fell in love with it instantly.  Grantland Rice, the man who wrote “Casey’s Revenge,” wrote this poem in 1910.  This is titled “Game Called,” and it captures the aftermath of a hard-played ballgame with beautiful metaphor and imagery.

*

Game Called.
Across the field of play
the dusk has come, the hour is late.
The fight is done and lost or won,
the player files out through the gate.
The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,
the stands are bare, the park is still.
But through the night there shines the light,
home beyond the silent hill.

Game Called.
Where in the golden light
the bugle rolled the reveille.
The shadows creep where night falls deep,
and taps has called the end of play.
The game is done, the score is in,
the final cheer and jeer have passed.
But in the night, beyond the fight,
the player finds his rest at last.

Game Called.
Upon the field of life
the darkness gathers far and wide,
the dream is done, the score is spun
that stands forever in the guide.
Nor victory, nor yet defeat
is chalked against the players name.
But down the roll, the final scroll,
shows only how he played the game.

“The Man Who Fanned Casey,” by T.M. Fowler

August 12, 2014

Now here’s a great twist on Casey At the Bat, written from the point-of-view of a fan with a focus on the pitcher.  There are, after all, two teams on the field, and the opposition has a perspective that is just as fascinating.  Published in 1907, “The Man Who Fanned Casey” first appeared in the Waterloo (Iowa) Daily Courier, written by T.M. Fowler.

*

I’m just an ordinary fan, and I don’t count for much,
But I’m for writing history with a true and honest touch.
It isn’t often that I knock – I’ll put you next to that –
But I must interpose a word on Casey at the Bat.

Oh, yes, I must admit it; the poem is a beaut.
Been runnin’ through my thinker since our team got the chute.
I heard an actor fan recite it thirteen years ago;
He sort of introduced it in the progress of the show.

It made a hit from gallery, down to the parquet floor;
But now I’ve got to thinking, and that poem makes me sore.
I’d like to know why any fan should be so off his nut
About the Mighty Casey who proved himself a mutt.

The score, we’re told, stood four to two, one inning left to play.
The Frogtown twirler thought he had things pretty much his way,
So in the ninth, with two men down, he loosened up a bit;
And Flynn scratched out a single, Blake let loose a two-base hit.

Then from the stand and bleachers there arose a mighty roar.
They wanted just that little hit they knew would tie the score.
And there at the bat was Casey, Mighty Casey, Mudville’s pride;
But was the Frogtown slabster sent balloonin’, terrified?

Now in the ninth, with two men down and Casey at the bat,
Most pitchers would have let him walk – we all are sure of that.
But Hagen was a hero, he was made of sterner stuff;
It’s his kind who gets the medals and the long newspaper puff.

He knew the time had come for him to play a winning role.
He heard the fans a-yelling; it was music to his soul.
He saw the gleam of confidence in Mighty Casey’s eye.
“I’ll strike him out!” Hagen resolved. “I’ll do it or I’ll die!”

He stood alone and friendless in that wild and frenzied throng.
There wasn’t even one kind word to boost his game along.
But back in Frogtown where they got the plays by special wire
The fans stood ready, if he won, to set the town on fire.

Now Hagen twirls his body on the truest corkscrew plan
And hurls a swift inshoot that cuts the corner of the pan.
But Casey thought the first ball pitched would surely be a ball,
And didn’t try to strike it, to the great disgust of all.

Again the Frogtown twirler figures dope on Mudville’s pride;
And Casey things the next will be an outshoot breaking wide.
But Hagen shot a straight one down the middle of the plate,
And Casey waited for a curve until it was too late.

A now the mighty slugger is a-hangin’ on the string.
If another good one comes along, it’s up to him to swing.
The jaunty smile, Hagen observed, has faded from his face,
And a look of straining agony is there to takes its place.

One moment Hagen pauses, hides the ball behind his glove,
And then he drives it from him with a sweeping long arm shove.
And now the air is shattered, and the ball’s in the catcher’s mitt,
For Casey, Might Casey, hadn’t figured on the spit!

“Casey’s Revenge,” by Grantland Rice

August 21, 2013

Published in 1907 in The Nashville Tennessean, this poem by Grantland Rice is the sequel of the original “Casey At the Bat.”  It certainly captures the spirit of the roller coaster ride of any player’s season.

~*~

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;
There were muttered oaths and curses—every fan in town was sore.
“Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,
And then to think he’d go and spring a bush league trick like that!”

All his past fame was forgotten—he was now a hopeless “shine.”
They called him “Strike-Out Casey,” from the mayor down the line;
And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.

He pondered in the days gone by that he had been their king,
That when he strolled up to the plate they made the welkin ring;
But now his nerve had vanished, for when he heard them hoot
He “fanned” or “popped out” daily, like some minor league recruit.

He soon began to sulk and loaf, his batting eye went lame;
No home runs on the score card now were chalked against his name;
The fans without exception gave the manager no peace,
For one and all kept clamoring for Casey’s quick release.

The Mudville squad began to slump, the team was in the air;
Their playing went from bad to worse—nobody seemed to care.
“Back to the woods with Casey!” was the cry from Rooters’ Row.
“Get some one who can hit the ball, and let that big dub go!”

The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again,
And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men;
And Casey smiled; his rugged face no longer wore a frown—
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.

All Mudville had assembled—ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box, the multitude went wild;
He doffed his cap in proud disdain, but Casey only smiled.

“Play ball!” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began.
But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
Who thought that Mudville had a chance, and with the setting sun
Their hopes sank low—the rival team was leading “four to one.”

The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;
But when the first man up hit safe, the crowd began to roar;
The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.

Three men on base —nobody out —three runs to tie the game!
A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;
But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night,
When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out to right.”

A dismal groan in chorus came; a scowl was on each face
When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed, his teeth were clenched in hate;
He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind and glory fades away;
There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day;
They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored: “Strike him out!”
But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.

The pitcher smiled and cut one loose —across the plate it sped;
Another hiss, another groan. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
Zip! Like a shot the second curve broke just below the knee.
“Strike two!” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

No roasting for the umpire now —his was an easy lot;
But here the pitcher whirled again—was that a rifle shot?
A whack, a crack, and out through the space the leather pellet flew,
A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.

Above the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight
The sphere sailed on —the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.
Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit,
But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.

O, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,
And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun!
And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall,
But Mudville hearts are happy now, for Casey hit the ball.

Casey at the Bat

April 3, 2013

Presenting the classic baseball poem, “Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic Sung in the Year 1888.” It was originally published in The San Francisco Examiner on 3 June 1888.

*

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 get but 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 despis-ed, 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 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 someone on the stand;
And its likely they’d a-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.

“Phin”

~Ernest Lawrence Thayer