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 –
they’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 despised, 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 five thousand 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 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 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 started playing in a coaches’ pitch baseball league at the tender age of 7. Not girls’ softball. Baseball. And I continued into our town’s version of little league at age 9. It was the first time I remember overt sexism.
“I will not have that little girl on my team,” I remember the coach saying to my dad.
“Why not? She’s just as good as some of the other 9 year olds.”
Two fully fledged, adult grown men were arguing about me. About whether or nor I was ‘good enough’ to play baseball. Not softball like all the other girls. Baseball. Mentally, I just recited the poem about baseball I’d recently learned– Casey at the bat
To make his point my coach played me at catcher one day in practice, and told me if I let one ball pass, I would ride the bench the whole season. To my credit, and I suppose the credit of my dad and baseball loving cousins., nothing got past me. I may not have caught them all, but nothing got past me. Much to the dismay of my coach. And his son. The pitcher. Just as proud of me as my dad was, his dad was disappointed in him. “That he couldn’t even get the ball past a girl,” I overheard as I saw him smack my teammate in the back of the head.
Summer 2001–Baseball Dreams
When I proposed the summer ‘Field of Dreams’ tour, I’m quite sure I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. How could I? I think the last conversation I had with my day that didn’t end in doors slamming was about my little league catching strategy At 9, I craved his advice. At 14, I told him if I wanted his advice, I’d ask for it, and very little words passed between us after that. And by 19, we hardly spoke.
When I first proposed the tour, it was like “blah blah blah, work…” to which I responded “FINE.!” And as everyone knows, any argument ending in FINE, is most definitely NOT FINE.
A few weeks later
“I guess we can go in August. Especially if you aren’t in school.” I did not fall for the bait. “OK. I’ll start looking at schedules.”
It was still early enough that I could take a full summer course load and take off the Fall semester. After all, I had no idea what direction I was headed in so did it really matter that I was delaying it?
I planned an equal mix of American League and National League venues. I’m an American League girl {Baltimore Orioles, in case you’re curious] while my dad was an OG Brooklyn/LA Dodgers fan. How two people from the southeast United States ended up as fans of said baseball teams is a story for another day.
- Stop 1: St Louis Cardinals. {National League]
- Stop 2: 2 for 1 of Chicago White Sox [AL] and Chicago Cubs {NL] [The Cubs were the only team that both my dad and I liked]
- Stop 3: Cincinnati Reds [NL]
- Stop 4: Cleveland Indians [AL]
- Stop 5: Detroit Tigers [AL]
- Stop 6: Toronto Blue Jays [AL]
- Stop 7: Montreal Expos {NL]
- Stop 8: Boston Red Sox [AL]
- Stop 9: New York Mets [Another of my dad’s favorites] [NL]
- Stop 10: Philadelphia Phillies [NL]
- Stop 11: Baltimore Orioles [the holy grail for me, but they are still the Orioles and I was treated to not one but two losses] [AL]
3000-ish miles, 35 days, 13 games, 12 stadiums, 8 hot dogs, It’s a miracle we both survived
