Casey at the Bat a Boisterous Ode to Baseball

The other day, I went to a baseball game for the first time in years. The home team, the Erie Seawolves, were in fine form that evening and managed to pull off a resounding victory. In truth, we attended just as much for the opportunity to receive a Tom Ridge bobblehead as to watch the game. But aside from the sun in our eyes for the first hour, it was a very enjoyable evening. I've always had a soft spot in my heart for baseball, perhaps because it's one of the few sports where I can actually follow what's going on. Maybe it's also because several great movies revolve around baseball. Or because of Yogi Berra. Or maybe it's because of Casey at the Bat.

My brother got an earful on our way home that evening as I tried to recall the words to that hallowed text and gushed about what a brilliant poem it was. And so it is. Good enough to form the basis for a Disney mini-classic. Good enough to be included in a collection of classic American literature. Just plain good. I was taken aback to discover, when looked into the matter further upon our arrival at home, that the poem hails from the 1880s. I realized it had been around for a while, but I had no idea it had been that long. I recalled that the ballad was set to the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic, but I wonder just how often it has actually been sung. Fourteen verses seems like a recipe for an inordinately long recitation. Of course, if Loreena McKennitt could record The Highwayman, then I suppose somebody could tackle Casey at the Bat. But most folks, I reckon, are content to leave the hymn bit out of it.

The poem manages to capture all the excitement of a baseball game, the thrill of hometown pride whether it's the major leagues or the less-than-minors, as the Mudville Nine seem to be. It's a comical ode, with jabs at not-so-talented players and the typical outrage over a hapless umpire's call. But the star of the show is Casey, a local hero, so self-assured and keen on strutting his stuff that he leaves the fate of the team down to one hit, having let two perfectly good pitches pass him by.

"The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the 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, the tension inherent in this final stanza before that fabled ending which so many can recite by heart! I can think of few poems so stirring, and I recommend it to anyone who loves baseball, or to anyone who doesn't understand why so many people do.