MikeL

Casey at the Bat, the poem by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, was first published in the San Francisco Examiner 125 years ago today. 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.

I'm claiming a gold star. Hope your health issues clear up in short order.

Original caption on the picture: An aardvark at Detroit Zoo. Are there any cliffs in Detroit? Don't think so; that area was shaved flat by a glacier.

Probably just a wall; I didn't take the picture. Your second question? It's what the author said is missing from the final chapter. A chapter that long, it may be the only thing missing.

Yay! Here's what's missing: Aardvark, Porc formiguer

An excellent movie, W L. We saw it some years ago.

Actually, it's been exactly one week. Sure seems longer.

Nope. Probably won't be as long as it has been. Maybe.

I like Thorn's suggestion, Will. You have to admit texting is sort of shallow; face to face is much better.

I'm not being mislead, Steve, because I don't know what the 115 days from May 30, 2013 means. If I was in the know...well, maybe ignorance is bliss.

Welcome, Joseph.

Zombie, could you try posting that picture again?

Trevor is probably safe. It's still August 2007 where he is.

It's great to hear that your health is gradually improving, Robert. Sorry that it's not all good news.

I really don't know Benji. How many are on C J's team?

Hang on, Prince. Please don't explode. I have finished my work and just returned the chapter to C J with my comments. Your patience will be well rewarded.

Perhaps the couple at Mimi's were from out of state and not aware of quaint local customs. I do see the irony. On the day we lose a gentle soul who always encouraged others, in quiet ways and as a cheerleader, we see signs that his world is becoming more accepting of him. We can look forward to the day when there is no irony and be thankful that we knew Vic.

12:54 am CDT when received here. It is long...48 pages in its current Word format. Will take a while to read twice. Am starting now...5:24 am.

Naper Vic was a great friend from my first day at GA. He was a genuine encourager. I miss you Vic.

Things are looking up for you John. I always knew they would. And you get to go to camp.

If I were at a high or steep place, I would turn green too. But, then, I already am.

Vertiginous? C J doesn't like green things?

Smile, though your heart is aching Smile, even though it’s breaking When there are clouds in the sky you’ll get by If you smile through your fear and sorrow Smile and maybe tomorrow You’ll see the sun come shining through for you Light up your face with gladness Hide every trace of sadness Although a tear may be ever so near That’s the time you must keep on trying Smile what’s the use of crying You’ll find that life is still worthwhile If you’ll just Smile Who wrote the lyrics?

Read two novels this week: Calico Joe by John Grisham; the game of baseball is the setting for an evil deed and the search for redemption and love. Between Shades of Gray by Ruta Sepetys; a Lithuanian family, exiled to Siberia by Stalin, learns to survive and exchanges acts of kindness with others.

I'm not squeamish, but that was TMI, goat. Glad you're feeling better now. Thanks for the update.