The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Oneonta 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 pall-like silence fell upon the parents of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d get to go to Dunkin after, with Casey at the bat.”
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Platt,
And the former was a toddler, while the latter was a brat;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from fifty throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the hilltop, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the fences 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 lit Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly tipped his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat.
Five hundred eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Two hundred tongues applauded when he wiped them on 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 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 hiltop, filled up with people, there went up a muffled
roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on Gilbert Lakes distant shore;
“Fire him! Fire the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have kicked him out had not Casey raised his
hand.
With a smile of Otsego patience 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 dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the entitled mob, 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 favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The cold cheese is eaten loudly, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children
shout,
But there is no joy in the Dreampark—mighty Casey has struck out.
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