Time for Mighty Casey to Turn His Back

Mighty Casey comes to bat, 114 years after Ernest Lawrence Thayer’s famous poem.

Casey’s now making $6.7 million a year while batting .237. And he don’t sign no stinkin’ autographs:

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 cap,

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 with 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 pitch came hurtling through the humid August air,

And Casey stood a-watching it--heading for his hair.

Close by the sturdy batsman the forkball spinning sped,

“This ain’t right, I’m walking. Blame the union,” Casey said.

From the bleachers bright with people, there rose a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm waves on a strange and distant shore,

“If you walk, then we’ll walk, too,” said the fans, they sounded certain,

“Go out and leave us hanging, we won’t be back; it’s curtains.”

The team owners, they weren’t worried, they’d been through this before,

Heck, they faced this in 1980, then again in ’94.

We have issues fans don’t understand, the masses won’t get them, mostly,

Payroll taxes and other things, our billions, we guard them closely.

“Fraud!” cried the maddened players, “There’s fraud across the land.”

Our forefathers went through this for us, Curt Flood, he took a stand.

If we let owners get their way, they’ll take away our millions,

They’ll take away our steroids, they’ll take away our children.

The sneer hadn’t fled from Casey’s lips, the teeth were clenched in hate,

He cursed the owners’ egos, he pounded on the plate.

“A salary tax and other things, you’ll see what we’re about,

We’ll fight this to the final cent; we’re striking!” he did shout.

And when Casey turned to see them, the faces in the stands,

The mothers and the brothers, his aunt, his Uncle Stan,

No one was there but ushers--a peanut guy, devout,

“Nuts! Nuts! Nuts! to all of you, the fans have all walked out.”

Chris Erskine’s column is published Wednesdays. He can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.