It looked extremely
rocky for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood two to four, with but an inning left
to play.
So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the
same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the
game.
A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,
With that hope which springs eternal within the human
breast.
For they thought: "If only Casey could get a
whack at that,"
They'd put even money now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake,
And the former was a pudd'n and the latter was a fake.
So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence 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 the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off
the ball."
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had
occurred,
There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin'
third.
Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous
yell--
It rumbled in the mountaintops, it rattled in the
dell;
It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on 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 when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into
his hip,
Defiance glanced 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 the 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 made 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
the 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 the ball go by
again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lips, his teeth are
clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel vengeance 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.
Ernest L. Thayer penned "Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic, sung in the year 1888” a few weeks
before he had to leave San Francisco and return to his family's business back east. Thayer was a Harvard graduate who went to school with William Randolph Hearst, who was about to take over a newspaper owned by his father and needed writers. Thayer went to work writin ghumor and satire pieces, and usually employed the pen name, “Phin.” This was the name he signed when he wrote Casey for which he received $5. Little did he or any of his readers know how the poem would one day become so
famous that a statue of Casey would stand at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY.
