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\n… which means it’s time for one of the best poems of all time:<\/p>\n
\n… which means it’s time for one of the best poems of all time:<\/p>\n
Casey at the Bat<\/strong> The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day; A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place; Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone; “Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!” The sneer has fled from Casey’s lip, the teeth are clenched in hate; Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright, … which means it’s time for one of the best poems of all time: Casey at the Bat By Ernest Lawrence Thayer San Francisco Examiner – June 3, 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 … <\/p>\n
\nBy Ernest Lawrence Thayer
\nSan Francisco Examiner – June 3, 1888<\/em><\/p>\n
\nThe score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
\nAnd then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
\nA pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.<\/p>\n
\nClung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
\nThey thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that \u2014
\nWe’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”<\/p>\n
\nAnd the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
\nSo upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
\nFor there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.<\/p>\n
\nAnd Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
\nAnd when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
\nThere was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.<\/p>\n
\nIt rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
\nIt pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
\nFor Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.<\/p>\n
\nThere was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.
\nAnd when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
\nNo stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.<\/p>\n
\nFive thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
\nThen while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
\nDefiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.<\/p>\n
\nAnd Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
\nClose by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped \u2014
\n“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.<\/p>\n
\nLike the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
\n“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand;
\nAnd it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.<\/p>\n
\nHe stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
\nHe signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
\nBut Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said “Strike two!”<\/p>\n
\nBut one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
\nThey saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
\nAnd they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.<\/p>\n
\nHe pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
\nAnd now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
\nAnd now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.<\/p>\n
\nThe band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
\nAnd somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
\nBut there is no joy in Mudville \u2014 mighty Casey has struck out.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"