Culture for the Masses

Jason Michael Barker

We baseball fans, and sports fans in general, are often accused of having less culture than fans of the opera, symphony, or those who frequent museums of fine art. Hogwash. What could be more in tune with American culture than sitting in the left field bleachers eating a hotdog, watching your favorite team?

No matter. Here at Strikethree.com, we strive to bring you content you can't get anywhere else. In keeping with that tradition, we bring you a piece of the "culture of baseball," in the form of two famous poems about the great game.

Baseball's Sad Lexicon (a.k.a. Tinker to Evers to Chance)

In July of 1910, New York Daily Mail columnist Franklin Pierce Adams needed eight lines to fill out his column. A native of Chicago, Adams penned a brief poem about the Cubs' double play combination, comprised of Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers, and Frank Chance. Their reputations bolstered by the poem, all three players were eventually elected to the Hall of Fame.

These are the saddest of possible words
Tinker to Evers to Chance
Trio of Bear Cubs fleeter than birds
Tinker to Evers to Chance
Thoughtlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double,
Words that are weighty with nothing but trouble
Tinker to Evers to Chance.

Casey at the Bat

Perhaps the most famous baseball poem ever is Ernest Lawrence Thayer's "Casey at the Bat." In 1888, Thayer was asked to write a humorous piece for the San Francisco Examiner, which was edited by his close friend and future newspaper mogul William Randolph Hearst. It took him only two hours to write "Casey," and he was paid five dollars. The piece appeared on June 3, 1888, and received little attention.

Later that summer, a comedian/signer named William DeWolf Hopper, and avid baseball fan, was putting together a show for "Baseball Night" at a New York theater. Two days before the show, a friend showed him Thayer's piece, and he incorporated it into his routine, where it received a highly favorable review from the New York Times. Now called "Casey at the Bat," the poem became his trademark.

In 1895, Thayer owned up to being the author of the piece, although rather embarrassed. "Upon this, perhaps my greatest of sins," he said, "I am exclusively to blame." Mudville, it seems, was actually Boston.

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 but get 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-huggin' third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled in 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 in 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 the 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 mighty 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 a 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 is 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.

So next time someone accuses you of not having culture, raise your fist in the air, quote from one of these two poems, and exclaim "I've got your culture right here!"

 

about the author

Jason Michael Barker wrote some poetry as well, but it starts off "There was a young star from Pawtucket," but the rest has nothing to do with the Boston Red Sox triple-A affiliate. Remind Jason that this is a family website when you write him at jmb@strikethree.com.