The Outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Boston nine that day:
The score stood two to five, with but one inning more to play.
And then when K-Cash died at first, and Lugo’s K to blame,
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 Ellsbury preceded Casey, as did also Jed Lowrie,
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 ‘Coby let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Lowrie, the young new rook, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jeddy safe at second and Jacoby scored past third.
Then the biggest of Papi’s followed with one more base hit,
That scored the Jed from second and the Sox might be able to do it;
And Dustin came to pinch hit and got a “fuck yeah!” double;
The Sox had tied the game at five and were no longer is such trouble.
The Rangers chose to take the bat out of the hands of Youk,
After a long at-bat, Drew showed his start’s no fluke;
Drew a walk to load the bases, the fans began to wish,
To bring the seventh hitter, the Sox first bagger to the dish.
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;
And there is much joy in Boston – mighty Casey has earned a go-ahead walk.
What, did you think he was going to strike out with the bases loaded and two down? It’s Casey at the Bat, not Julio Lugo.
(Poem adapted from Ernest Thayer.)
