April 30, 2000

Casey at the Bat

The first baseball season of the new millennium is underway, and the hometown Rangers standing is .500  -- 10 won, 10 lost - an early season record worthy of note if not yet congratulatory.

Baseball has been dubbed the "intellectual sport." It requires considerable knowledge and appreciation of the finer points of athletic endeavor -- as this old sportswriter discovered on his first assignment 60 years ago today.

Some reference to statistics is essential - hence my opening remark. To fully savor the dramatic confrontation between pitcher and batter, for example, it is well to know if the former's earned-run average is 1.6 (good) or 6.1 (bad). Also, if the latter's batting average is .198 (dismal) or .350 (stellar). How these figures are computed is a trade secret. Just enjoy.

First off, it must be remembered that the point of contact between a round ball and a round bat is just one-fourth square inch. Nothing in the game is absolutely predictable.

Baseball does not have a time limit. There is no pressure to beat a clock, just the opposing team and one's own shortcomings.

The game is simultaneously a team sport and a test of individual performance. Nine players on the field must mesh well with one another. Yet, each is isolated in his own piece of geography and must accomplish his mission alone. The shifting panoply of team play and individual performance stimulates a full range of passions.

Finally there is the pace. Baseball is to be enjoyed at leisure - with time between plays to shuck a few peanuts and draw deep of a sudsy brew.

It soothes the soul alternately with pumping adrenaline - preferably from a seat behind the home-team dugout. This enables a faithful fan to share the disgust or elation of returning athletes whose expressions and spontaneous words elucidate one and all.

Baseball Poetry

Having established an emotional relationship with a baseball team, we cherish it as a groom his bride. We exult when they win, mope if they lose. The range of emotions has been immortalized by a poem titled "Casey At The Bat, A Ballad of the Republic."

This heart rending doggerel was composed by Ernest Lawrence Thayer for the June 3, 1888 edition of the San Francisco Examiner.

Thayer was heir to the American Woolen Mills and studied philosophy at Harvard University. His major was an appropriate subject for getting a handle on the game of baseball.

While an undergraduate, Thayer was editor of the Harvard Lampoon. Business manager of the humor magazine was young William Randolph Hearst.

Upon being graduated, Hearst's father allowed him to take over the Examiner. The young publisher promptly hired Thayer to write a humor column at $5 each. The pay for columning has not changed all that much today.

Thayer's tragic tale of Casey was dashed off in an hour to fill a hole on page 4. The author thought so little of it he insisted it be credited simply to "Phin" - his college nickname.

The poem started its climb to classic literature two months later. DeWolf Hopper, the most popular comedian of his day, inserted "Casey" into a comic opera he was performing at Wallack's Theater on Broadway.

The management had invited baseball players from the New York Giants and the Chicago White Stockings to appear as front-row guests. Searching for material to amuse his special audience, Hopper was given a clipping of "Casey At The Bat" by a friend.

Hopper recited the poem in just six minutes, but it stole the show. He made it a regular part of his act and gave it an estimated 10,000 times during his career.  Here it is in its entirety:

Casey At The Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day.

The score stood four to two with but one inning 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 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 lulu and the latter was a cake.

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat

For there seemed little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

*

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all;

And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball.

When the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

*

From five thousand 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 to his place.

There was pride in Casey's bearing, 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 it on his shirt.

Then while the writhing pitched ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance gleamed in Casey's eyes, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

*

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 benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar

Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand.

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 spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

 *

"Fraud! cried maddened thousands, an echo answered, "Fraud!"

But one scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, 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 shinning bright.

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.

Somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.

Author: Lindsey Williams

Illustration -- 3 col. old time baseball player

 (TO COPY DESK -- NO CUTLINE NECESSARY )