In honor of the World Series
I’m actually going to the World Series game 2 tonight. I live in the San Francisco Bay Area, and my parents (who have worked with the Giants organization) were nice enough to get the immediate family a dozen tickets. So, my Significant Other (SO) and I are very excited to go to the game! Hey, you might see us on TV…I’ll be the one with the graphite K3.
It’s also kind of a busy work day (not too busy, but I may not get a real lunch) tomorrow, so I was thinking I may not get to write a post.
I decided to give you Casey at the Bat by Ernest Thayer. It was originally published in the San Francisco Examiner in 1888, so it’s in the public domain.
CASEY AT THE BAT
BY ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER
The score stood four to six with just an inning left to play;
And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.
With that hope that springs eternal within the human breast;
For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that
They’d put up even money, with Casey at the bat.
But the former was a pudding, and the latter was a fake;
So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.
And the much-despisèd Blaikie tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Blaikie safe on second and Flynn a-hugging third![Pg 1149]
It bounded from the mountain-top, and 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 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.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
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.
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;[Pg 1150]
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted some one in the stand.
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
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.”
But the 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.
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.
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.
This post by Bufo Calvin originally appeared in the I Love My Kindle blog.