Heartfelt History goes back…back…WAY BACK!

Was there joy in Mudville?

In 1914, sportswriter and editor Francis Richter published a book titled “History and Records of Base Ball.”  Not only did he give an amazing overview of baseball’s beginnings in America but he also dedicated a chapter to “Base Ball Classics” which highlights two very popular works.  He wrote the following:

“The National Game
has therefore not only created a literature of its own, but it has inspired the poets, romancers and wits of two generations to literary efforts of many kinds and various degrees of excellence, some of the highest order. There have been countless witty, pathetic, or sentimental stories written about the game itself and about its heroes — and there is no sport that so much inspires hero-worship, or makes heroes of greater mold than Base Ball.
Particularly does Base Ball lend itself to poetry, and in this field so many excellent lines have been written and published within the past forty years, that it seems invidious to select any one of these efforts as superior. Nevertheless, there is one that has appealed beyond all others to the public imagination, one that has been conned by millions of boys and young men, that has been recited on every stage and rostrum, and in probably every school-house, in the country since its initial publication in 1888. That one is the famous “Casey at the Bat,” which has, by common consent, become accepted as the classic of base ball poetry. It is therefore fitting that it should have a permanent place in the archives of the great game, hence its reproduction here…”

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 Casey At The Bat

BY ERNEST L. THAYER, 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 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 the 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 despised, tore the cover off the ball ;
And when the dust had lifted and the men saw what had occurred.
There was Johnny safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell ;
It rambled 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 some one in 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 spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud,” cried the maddened thousands, and the 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.

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So did the mighty Casey give up?  Would he ever have the courage to face his failures? Would there ever be redemption for him, his team…for Mudville?  Well, as history would play out, the answer is YES!   Here is what Francis Richter had to say…

“Second in merit and popularity only to Mr. Thayer’s
“Casey at the Bat” is a companion piece, entitled “Casey’s Revenge,” written eighteen years later by one of the most gifted poets and ablest commentators upon the game of the latest generation, Mr. Grantland Rice, a Southern writer now domiciled in New York. Mr. Rice’s poem therefore deserves a place with the original classic within the covers of this History and Records of Base Ball. The companion piece follows:”

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Casey’s Revenge

BY GRANTLAND RICE, 1906

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 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 Casey’s eye.

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 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, groaning 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.

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 his 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 space the leather pellet flew —
A blot against the distant sky — a speck against the blue.

Above the fence in centre 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.

Oh! 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.

So in conclusion, joy was restored in Mudville.

Heartfelt History believes in redemption.  We believe that despite our challenges, our let downs, the times when we strike out and when everything seems to go wrong in life – there is still HOPE.  Maybe you are reading this and you suffered a setback? Maybe something went wrong that was out of your control?

Like Casey, there is that possibility of a comeback.  You just need to have the courage to try again and believe.  If it doesn’t happen the way you intended, well maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.  At least you can say that you tried and did it with dignity.

 We believe in HOPE, we believe in AMERICA and we believe in YOU!

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