Mudville?

As a girl, I loved nothing more than to bring my dad his volume of "Best Loved American Poems."  Curling up on a pile of pillows, I waited expectantly as he turned to the well-worn ballad. I could practically recite it, but it was far more delightful to hear the melody of his voice relate the timeless tale of American life, "Casey at the Bat," by Ernest Lawrence Thayer.

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.

The tumbling torrent of words delighted me, bringing the roaring crowd to life. I snuggled deeper into the pillows, closing my eyes to picture the drama of Casey taking his stance in the batters' box. 

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.

I couldn't believe it! What was that umpire thinking?

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.

"Thank goodness. That was a close call."

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."

I loved the sound of that word- "spheroid." It spun right off my tongue. No wonder Casey missed it. 

"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.

My dad paused. I was comfortably confident that Casey had smashed the ball out of the park. Dad continued...

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. 

"What?" I yelled. "That's impossible. Casey couldn't have missed it, Dad. You read it wrong. Read it again." Dad laughed, his infectious, unfettered laugh and read the last two stanzas again. Nothing changed. Casey had still struck out. I was crushed. 

Time and again we repeated this ritual. Every time Dad read the poem, we went through the same routine. I had a love-hate relationship with Casey. I secretly hoped that maybe this time he would get with it and hit the ball. He didn't. 

Little did I know that twelve years down the road I would be cheering against Casey and his fellow batsmen. Instead, I would be cheering for the man throwing that leather-covered sphere, whom I am proud to call my husband. Being married to a pitcher changes one's perspective entirely. Now, I am on my feet, screaming my lungs out when my husband Josh retires a big hitter like Casey. 

Even though I am married to a pitcher, I still love the story of Casey and delight in reading it to our one year old daughter McKenzie, who cheerfully travels with me to all the little Mudvilles we visit in the minor leagues to watch her daddy play. 

This blog is dedicated to telling the story of those travels and the interesting, delightful, irritating, and facinating people and places we encounter along the way.  These people and places are the true wealth of minor league baseball- the color, the aroma, the flavor of America. I thank the Lord Jesus for the opportunity to live this life and look forward to sharing our adventures with you.