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.
Published 125 years ago today in the San Francisco Examiner
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