Casey at the Bat

Norman Rockwell

Dugout

Casey at the Bat

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 despisèd, 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 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 '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 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 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 favoured 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.

~ Ernest L. Thayer ~

Casey Twenty Years Later

Norman Rockwell
The Three Umpires

Casey Twenty Years Later

The Bugville team was surely up against a rocky game;

The chances were they'd win defeat and not undying fame;

Three men were hurt and two were benched; the score stood six to four.

They had to make three hard-earned runs in just two innings more.

"It can't be done," the captain said, a pallor on his face;

"I've got two pitchers in the field, a mutt on second base;

And should another man get spiked or crippled in some way,

The team would sure be down and out, with eight men left to play.

"We're up against it anyhow as far as I can see;

My boys ain't hitting like they should and that's what worries me;

The luck is with the other side, no pennant will we win;

It's mighty tough, but we must take our medicine and grin."

The eighth round opened- one, two, three- the enemy went down.

The Bugville boys went out the same- the captain wore a frown.

The first half of the ninth came round, two men had been put out,

When Bugville's catcher broke a thumb and could not go the route.

A deathly silence settled o'er the crowd assembled there.

Defeat would be allotted them; they felt it in the air;

With only eight men in the field 'twould be a gruesome fray,

Small wonder that the captain cursed the day he learned to play.

"Lend me a man to finish with!" he begged the other team;

"Lend you a man?" the foe replied; "My boy, you're in a dream!

We came to win the pennant, too - that's what we're doing here.

There's only one thing you can do - call for a volunteer!"

The captain stood and pondered in a listless sort of way.

He never was a quitter and he would not be today!

"Is there within the grandstand here"- his voice rang loud and clear

"A man who has the sporting blood to be a volunteer?"

Again that awful silence settled o'er the multitude.

Was there a man among them with such recklessness imbued?

The captain stood with cap in hand, while hopeless was his glance,

And then a tall and stocky man cried out, "I'll take a chance!"

Into the field he bounded with a step both firm and light;

"Give me the mask and mitt," he said; "let's finish up the fight.

The game is now beyond recall; I'll last at least a round;

Although I'm ancient, you will find me muscular and sound."

His hair was sprinkled here and there with little streaks of gray;

Around his eyes and on his brow a bunch of wrinkles lay.

The captain smiled despairingly and slowly turned away.

"Why, he's all right!" one rooter yelled. Another, "Let him play!"

"All right, go on," the captain sighed. The stranger turned around,

Took off his coat and collar, too, and threw them on the ground.

The humor of the situation seemed to hit them all,

And as he donned the mask and mitt, the umpire called, "Play ball!"

Three balls the pitcher at him heaved, three balls of lightning speed.

The stranger caught them all with ease and did not seem to heed.

Each ball had been pronounced a strike, the side had been put out,

And as he walked in towards the bench, he heard the rooters shout.

One Bugville boy went out on strikes, and one was killed at first;

The captain saw them fail to hit, and gnashed his teeth and cursed.

The third man smashed a double and the fourth man swatted clear,

Then, in a thunder of applause, up came the volunteer.

His feet were planted in the earth, he swung a warlike club;

The captain saw his awkward pose and softly whispered, "Dub!"

The pitcher looked at him and grinned, then heaved a mighty ball;

The echo of that fearful swat still lingers with us all.

High, fast and far the spheroid flew; it sailed and sailed away;

It ne'er was found, so it's supposed it still floats on today.

Three runs came in, the pennant would be Bugville's for a year;

The fans and players gathered round to cheer the volunteer.

"What is your name?" the captain asked. "Tell us you name," cried all,

As down his cheeks great tears of joy were seen to run and fall.

For one brief moment he was still, then murmured soft and low:

"I'm the mighty Casey who struck out just twenty years ago."

~ Clarence P. McDonald ~

Casey at the Bat (Road Game)

Norman Rockwell

The Rookie

Casey at the Bat (Road Game)

It was looking rather hopeful for our Dustburg team that day:

We were leading Mudville four to two with an inning left to play.

We got Cooney on a grounder and Muldoon on the same,

Two down, none on, top of the ninth- we thought we'd won the game.

Mudville was despairing, and we grinned and cheered and clapped.

It looked like after all these years our losing streak had snapped.

And we only wished that Casey, the big fat ugly lout,

Could be the patsy who would make the final, shameful out.

Oh how we hated Casey, he was a blot upon the game.

Every dog in Dustburg barked at the mention of his name.

A bully and a braggart, a cretin and a swine-

If Casey came to bat, we'd stick it where the moon don't shine!

Two out and up came Flynn to bat, with Jimmy Blake on deck,

And the former was a loser and the latter was a wreck;

Though the game was in the bag, the Dustburg fans were hurt

To think that Casey would not come and get his just dessert.

But Flynn he got a single, a most unlikely sight,

And Blake swung like a lady but he parked it deep to right,

And when the dust had lifted, and fickle fate had beckoned,

There was Flynn on third base and Jimmy safe at second.

Then from every Dustburg throat, there rose a lusty cry:

"Bring up the slimy greaseball and let him stand and die.

Throw the mighty slider and let him hear it whiz

And let him hit a pop-up like the pansy that he is."

There was pride in Casey's visage as he strode onto the grass,

There was scorn in his demeanor as he calmly scratched his ass.

Ten thousand people booed him when he stepped into the box,

And they made the sound of farting when he bent to fix his socks.

And the fabled slider came spinning toward the mitt,

And Casey watched it sliding and he did not go for it.

And the umpire jerked his arm like he was hauling down the sun,

And his cry rang from the box seats to the bleachers: Stee-rike One!

Ten thousand Dustburg partisans raised such a mighty cheer,

The pigeons in the rafters crapped and ruined all the beer.

"You filthy ignorant rotten bastard slimy son of a bitch,

"We screamed at mighty Casey, and then came the second pitch.

It was our hero's fastball, it came across the plate,

And according to the radar, it was going ninety-eight,

And according to the umpire, it came in straight and true,

And the cry rang from the toilets to the bullpen: Stee-rike Two.

Ten thousand Dustburg fans arose in joyful loud derision

To question Casey's salary, his manhood, and his vision.

Then while the Dustburg pitcher put the resin on the ball,

Ten thousand people hooted to think of Casey's fall.

Oh the fury in his visage as he spat tobacco juice

And heard the little children screaming violent abuse.

He knocked the dirt from off his spikes, reached down and eased his pants

"What's the matter? Did ya lose 'em?" cried a lady in the stands.

And then the Dustburg pitcher stood majestic on the hill,

And leaned in toward the plate, and then the crowd was still,

And he went into his windup, and he kicked, and let it go,

And then the air was shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

He swung so hard his hair fell off and he toppled in disgrace

And the Dustburg catcher held the ball and the crowd tore up the place,

With Casey prostrate in the dirt amid the screams and jeers

We threw wieners down at him and other souvenirs.

We pounded on the dugout roof as they helped him to the bench,

Then we ran out to the parking lot and got a monkey wrench

And found the Mudville bus and took the lug nuts off the tires,

And attached some firecrackers to the alternator wires.

We rubbed the doors and windows with a special kind of cheese

That smells like something died from an intestinal disease.

Old Casey took his sweet time, but we were glad to wait

And we showered him with garbage as the team came out the gate.

So happy were the Dustburg fans that grand and glorious day,

It took a dozen cops to help poor Casey away,

But we grabbed hold of the bumpers and we rocked him to and fro

And he cursed us from inside the bus, and gosh, we loved it so!

Oh sometimes in America the sun is shining bright,

Life is joyful sometimes, and all the world seems right,

But there is no joy in Dustburg, no joy so pure and sweet

As when the mighty Casey fell, demolished, at our feet.

~ Garrison Keillor ~

Fast Break

Kadir Nelson

Next Five

Fast Break

In Memory of Dennis Turner, 1946-1984

A hook shot kisses the rim and

hangs there, helplessly, but doesn't drop,

and for once our gangly starting center

boxes out his man and times his jump

perfectly, gathering the orange leather

from the air like a cherished possession

and spinning around to throw a strike

to the outlet who is already shoveling

an underhand pass toward the other guard

scissoring past a flat-footed defender

who looks stunned and nailed to the floor

in the wrong direction, trying to catch sight

of a high, gliding dribble and a man

letting the play develop in front of him

in slow motion, almost exactly

like a coach's drawing on the blackboard,

both forwards racing down the court

the way that forwards should, fanning out

and filling the lanes in tandem, moving

together as brothers passing the ball

between them without a dribble, without

a single bounce hitting the hardwood

until the guard finally lunges out

and commits to the wrong man

while the power-forward explodes past them

in a fury, taking the ball into the air

by himself now and laying it gently

against the glass for a lay-up,

but losing his balance in the process,

inexplicably falling, hitting the floor

with a wild, headlong motion

for the game he loved like a country

and swiveling back to see an orange blur

floating perfectly though the net.

~ Edward Hirsch ~