Obama at the bat

I'm sure most of you know the original poem upon which this is based, "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Thayer - often considered one of baseball's greatest writings.

It all started in 1885 when George Hearst decided to run for state senator in California. To self-promote his brand of politics, Hearst purchased the San Francisco Examiner. At the completion of the election, Hearst gave the newspaper to his son, William Randolph Hearst.

William, who had experience editing the Harvard Lampoon while at Harvard College, took to California three Lampoon staff members. One of those three was Ernest L. Thayer who signed his humorous Lampoon articles with the pen name Phin.

In the June 3, 1888 issue of The Examiner, Phin appeared as the author of the poem we all know as Casey at the Bat. The poem received very little attention and a few weeks later it was partially republished in the New York Sun, though the author was now known as Anon.

A New Yorker named Archibald Gunter clipped out the poem and saved it as a reference item for a future novel. Weeks later Gunter found another interesting article describing an upcoming performance at the Wallack Theater by comedian De Wolf Hopper - who was also his personal friend. The August 1888 show (exact date is unknown) had members from the New York and Chicago ball clubs in the audience and the clipping now had a clear and obvious use.

Gunter shared Casey at the Bat with Hopper and the performance was nothing short of legendary.

"Love has its sonnets galore. War has its epics in heroic verse. Tragedy its sombre story in measured lines. Baseball has Casey at the Bat." - Albert Spalding

Casey at the Bat

by Ernest Lawrence Thayer ©

Published: The Examiner (06-03-1888)

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.

"Phin"

Casey at the bat. The other team’s point of view.

Garrison Kiellor

The outlook was brilliant for our Dustburg team that day:
We were leading Mudville four to two with an inning left to play. We got Cooney on a grounder and Muldoon on the same,Two out, none on, top of the ninth - we thought we’d won the game.

Mudville was despairing, and we grinned and cheered and clapped To think that after all these years our losing string had snapped. And we only wished that Casey, the big fat ugly lout, Would be the patsy who would make the final, shameful out.

Oh how we hated Casey, he was a blot upon the game. Every dog in Dustburg barked at the mention of his name. A bully and a braggart, a cretin and a swine- If Casey came to bat, we’d stick it where the moon don’t shine!

Two out and up came Flynn to bat, with Jimmy Blake on deck, And the former was a loser and the latter was a wreck; Though the game was in the bag, the Dustburg fans were hurt To think that Casey would not come and get his just dessert.

But Flynn cut loose a single, a most unlikely sight, And Blake swung like a lady but he parked it deep to right, And when the dust had settled, and fickle fate had beckoned, There was Flynn a-huggin third, and Jimmy safe at second.

Then from every Dustburg throat arose a mighty cry: “Send up the slimy greaseball and let him stand and die. Throw the mighty slider and let him hear it whiz And let him hit a pop-up like the pansy that he is.”

There was pride in Casey’s visage as he strode across the grass, There was scorn in his demeanor as he calmly scratched his back. Ten thousand people booed him when he stepped into the box, And they made the sound of farting when he bent to fix his socks.

And then the fabled slider came spinning toward the mitt,
And Casey watched it coming and he did not go for it. And the umpire jerked his arm like he was hauling down the sun, And his cry rang from the box seats to the bleachers: Stee-rike One!

Ten thousand Dustburg partisans raised such a mighty cheer,The pigeons in the rafters crapped and ruined all the beer. “You stupid lazy filthy ignorant rotten son of a gun,” We yelled at mighty Casey, and then came the second one.

It was our hero’s fastball, it came across the plate, And according to the radar, it was going ninety-eight, And according to the umpire, it came in straight and true, And the cry rang from the toilets to the bullpen: Steerike Two.

Ten thousand Dustburg fans arose in joyful loud derision To question Casey’s salary, his manhood, and his vision. Then while the Dustburg pitcher put the resin on the ball, Ten thousand people hooted to think of Casey’s fall.

Oh the fury in his visage as he spat tobacco juice And heard our little children screaming violent abuse. He knocked the dirt from off his spikes, reached down and eased his pants “What’s the matter? Did ya lose ‘em?” cried a lady in the stands.

And now the Dustburg pitcher stood majestic on the hill, And leaned in toward the plate, and then the crowd was still, And he went into his windup, and he kicked, and let it go, And then the air was shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

He swung so hard his hair fell off and he fell down in disgrace And the Dustburg catcher held the ball and the crowd tore up the place, With Casey prostrate in the dirt amid the boos and jeers We threw wieners down at him and other souvenirs.

We pounded on the dugout roof as they helped him to the bench, Then we ran out to the parking lot and got a monkey wrench And found the Mudville bus and took the lug nuts off the tires, And attached some firecrackers to the alternator wires.

We rubbed the doors and windows with a special kind of cheese That smells like something died from an intestinal disease. Old Casey took his sweet time, but we were glad to wait And we showered him with garbage when he came out through the gate.

So happy were the Dustburg fans that grand and glorious day, It took a dozen cops to help poor Casey get away, But we grabbed hold of the bumpers and we rocked him to and fro And he cursed us from inside the bus, and gosh, we loved it so!

Oh sometimes in America the sun is shining bright, Life is joyful sometimes, and all the world seems right, But there is no joy as in Dustburg, no joy so pure and sweet As when the mighty Casey fell, demolished, at our feet.

Published: The Speaker (06-1907)

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;
There were muttered oaths and curses- every fan in town was sore.
“Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,
And then to think he’d go and spring a bush league trick like that!”

All his past fame was forgotten- he was now a hopeless “shine.”
They called him “Strike-Out Casey,” from the mayor down the line;
And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.

He pondered in the days gone by that he had been their king,
That when he strolled up to the plate they made the welkin ring;
But now his nerve had vanished, for when he heard them hoot
He “fanned” or “popped out” daily, like some minor league recruit.

He soon began to sulk and loaf, his batting eye went lame;
No home runs on the score card now were chalked against his name;
The fans without exception gave the manager no peace,
For one and all kept clamoring for Casey’s quick release.

The Mudville squad began to slump, the team was in the air;
Their playing went from bad to worse - nobody seemed to care.
“Back to the woods with Casey!” was the cry from Rooters’ Row.
“Get some one who can hit the ball, and let that big dub go!”

The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again,
And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men;
And Casey smiled; his rugged face no longer wore a frown-
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.

All Mudville had assembled - ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box, the multitude went wild;
He doffed his cap in proud disdain, but Casey only smiled.

“Play ball!” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began.
But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
Who thought that Mudville had a chance, and with the setting sun
Their hopes sank low- the rival team was leading “four to one.”

The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;
But when the first man up hit safe, the crowd began to roar;
The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.

Three men on base - nobody out - three runs to tie the game!
A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;
But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night,
When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out to right.”

A dismal groan in chorus came; a scowl was on each face
When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed, his teeth were clenched in hate;
He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind and glory fades away;
There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day;
They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored: “Strike him out!”
But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.

The pitcher smiled and cut one loose - across the plate it sped;
Another hiss, another groan. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
Zip! Like a shot the second curve broke just below the knee.
“Strike two!” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

No roasting for the umpire now - his was an easy lot;
But here the pitcher whirled again- was that a rifle shot?
A whack, a crack, and out through the space the leather pellet flew,
A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.

Above the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight
The sphere sailed on - the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.
Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit,
But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.

O, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,
And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun!
And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall,
But Mudville hearts are happy now, for Casey hit the ball.

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