NO RELIEF FOR CASEY : He Makes His Pitch but Once Again Can’t Save the Day

This year marks the 100th anniversary of “Casey at the Bat,” Ernest Thayer’s tale of baseball’s most famous failure.

The poem, which first appeared in the San Francisco Examiner, drew scant attention until a Shakespearean actor named De Wolf Hopper recited it at a performance honoring the 1888 New York Giants.

“Casey” became such a staple of the vaudeville stage that, in time, even Thayer said he was tired of hearing it--possibly because he received only $5 from the Examiner.

In any event, if Thayer were writing the poem today, he would find that baseball has changed in some ways. “Casey” might have read like this:

The outlook seemed hopeful for the Mudville nine that day; The boys led 3 to 2 with an inning left to play. And when Reggie struck out, and Jones popped to Burroughs, A sickly silence fell upon Mudville’s chastened foes. For Flynn was scheduled next, followed by old Jimmy Rangel; The former just out of rehab, the latter an ex-Angel. So within the rivals’ dugout, grim melancholy sat; No chance of catching Mudville on this last at-bat. But Flynn let drive a double with his new corked club, And Rangel, the weak DH, reached on a shortstop’s flub. Two more shots upon the AstroTurf then spilled, And suddenly it was 3 to 3 with all the bases filled. Then from 30,000 throats, there rose some lusty squalls; They rambled through the valley, they echoed in the malls. They soared beyond the freeways, far above the ground; For Casey, the mighty reliever, was advancing to the mound. There was ease in Casey’s manner as trotted from the pen; There was sandpaper in his pocket, and his face wore a grin. And when responding to the cheers, he fingered each gold chain; No stranger in the crowd could doubt that Casey’d save the game. Sixty-thousand arms performed the wave, as he clambered up the hill; Thirty-thousand tongues wagged, as he moistened up the pill. And when the cagey hurler ground the ball into his hip, The Little Leaguers in attendance made sure they got the tip. And now he took his stretch, and glanced at each runner; And now he cut loose his split-fingered hummer. The batter stood transfixed as the sphere by him sped; “Ball” was the call; “Let’s see your glove,” the ump said. From the bleachers to the suites, 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 in the stands; And they likely would have, but he found nothing on Casey’s hands. With a smile of benign charity, great Casey’s visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on. He signaled to his catcher, and once more the cowhide flew; The batsman still refused to offer; the ump said Ball 2. Next came Ball 3, and the fans cried, “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 mighty Casey wouldn’t miss the plate again. A sneer plays on Casey’s lip, which speaks of hate not love; He pounds with cruel violence, the ball into his glove. And now he toes the rubber, and now he starts his windup; And even as he lets loose, the ump’s made his mind up. 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 children merrily talk; But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey lost on a balk.

Previously read on National Public Radio.