” Casey at the bat”

I was 39 when I saw my first baseball game! Growing up in Northern Ireland it was cricket not baseball which was played! Even to this day I still am learning the “intricacies” of baseball and still to this day I have never ever played a game. However, just yesterday joining three others for a game of golf I was amused at the expression on the first tee “Casey at the bat” I knew enough about baseball to be dangerous so I asked what was the significance of that expression, it seeming so out of place on the golf course. After polite chuckles from my playing partners I was told about the poem or ballad of Casey at the Bat and one partner added that perhaps it should feature in my blog! This morning I looked up the poem and I share it below. Please note to “die” before first base is to be out before one could run to first base! It is indeed a fun ballad and a gentle reminder to player and spectator, to author and reader, that events can often surprise us. The unexpected can happen, who would have thought that two of the weakest players would get to base and the star player fail so miserably! As I post today our TV screens are full of the Paris 2024 Olympics, certainly many of the best are being the best but along the way there are some delightful surprises such as Flynn and Blake! Life is not all about being the GOAT!

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 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 despised, 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,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
Ernest Lawrence Thayer 1863-1940

Prayer:
Lord God,
we rejoice in the gift of life, and
give thanks for the part we can each play
in making life better for one and all.
We know only too well that we are not
all called to be saints, and some whom
we might choose to name as saints, can often fall short .
Take from us, O Lord, arrogance and pride and fill us
with grace and mercy that makes a difference for good. Amen.