This Day In Baseball
History: June 3, 1888
It was on this date in 1888 that
the poem “Casey At The Bat” was published for the first time. It appeared in
the San Francisco Examiner under the pen name of ‘Phin.’ The poet, Ernest L.
Thayer, didn’t think much of his work and was looking to avoid embarrassment
because he didn’t want to ruin his reputation should the poem be received
badly.
However, when other poets came
forward trying to lay claim to the very successful and popular poem, Thayer had
no choice but to speak up and reveal he was the one who wrote it.
Below, you will find the poem in
its entirety. If you have never read it, do yourself a favour and do so now.
It’s an amazing piece of baseball history. However, if you would prefer to have
someone read it to you, click on the link and hear James Earl Jones do so.
Casey at the
Bat
Ernest Lawrence
Thayer
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 the
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,
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