The first baseball season of the new millennium is underway, and the hometown Rangers’ standing is .500 — 10 won, 10 lost — an early-season record worth noting, if not congratulations.

Baseball has been dubbed the “intellectual sport.” It requires considerable knowledge and appreciation of the finer points of athletic endeavor, as this aging sportswriter discovered on his first assignment 60 years ago today.

Some reference to statistics is essential, hence my initial comment. To get the most out of the dramatic matchup between pitcher and batter, for example, it’s good to know if the former’s earned run average is 1.6 (good) or 6.1 (bad). Also, if the latter’s batting average is .198 (lousy) or .350 (star). How these figures are calculated is a trade secret. Just enjoy.

First of all, it must be remembered that the point of contact between a round ball and a round bat is only a quarter of an inch square. Nothing in the game is absolutely predictable.

Baseball has no time limit. There is no pressure to beat the clock, just the opposing team and your own shortcomings.

The game is simultaneously a team sport and a test of individual performance. Nine players on the field must mesh well with each other. However, each one is isolated in their own geography and must accomplish their mission alone. The changing panoply of team play and individual performance stimulates a wide range of passions.

Finally there is the rhythm. Baseball is meant to be enjoyed in your spare time, with time between plays to crack a few peanuts and enjoy a sparkling concoction.

Calm the soul alternately with the adrenaline pump, preferably from a seat behind the home team’s dugout. This allows a loyal fan to share in the disgust or elation of the returning athletes, whose expressions and spontaneous words make everyone clear.

baseball poetry

Having established an emotional relationship with a baseball team, we cherish her as a boyfriend to his girlfriend. We rejoice when they win, we are despondent if they lose. The range of emotions has been immortalized by a poem titled “Casey At The Bat, A Ballad of the Republic.”

This heart-rendering nonsense was composed by Ernest Lawrence Thayer for the June 3, 1888 edition of the San Francisco Examiner.

Thayer was heir to American Woolen Mills and studied philosophy at Harvard University. His major was an appropriate topic to familiarize himself with the game of baseball.

While a student, Thayer was editor of the Harvard Lampoon. The commercial manager of the humor magazine was the young William Randolph Hearst.

Upon graduation, Hearst’s father allowed him to take over as the examiner. The young editor soon hired Thayer to write a humor column for five dollars each. The pay per column hasn’t changed much today.

Thayer’s tragic story of Casey was rushed over an hour to fill a gap on page 4. The author gave it so little thought that he insisted it be attributed simply to “Phin,” his nickname in college.

The poem began its rise to classical literature two months later. DeWolf Hopper, the most popular comedian of his day, inserted “Casey” into a comic opera he was performing at Wallack’s Theater on Broadway.

Management had invited baseball players from the New York Giants and the Chicago White Stockings to appear as ringside guests. Seeking material to amuse his special audience, a friend gave Hopper a clipping of “Casey At The Bat”.

Hopper recited the poem in just six minutes, but he stole the show. He made it a regular part of his act and performed it an estimated 10,000 times during his career. Here it is in its entirety:

casey at bat

The outlook was not bright for the Mudville nine that day.

The score was four to two with only one inning to play;

And then when Cooney died early on, and Barrows did the same,

A sick silence fell over the game bosses.

*

A few stragglers got up to leave, deeply desperate. The rest

Clinging to the hope that springs eternal in the human chest.

They figured if Casey could take a hit on that,

We’d even put up the money now, with Casey at bat.

*

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did Jimmy Blake;

And the first one was a lulu and the second one was a cake.

So over that sorrowful crowd a gloomy melancholy sat

Because there seemed little chance of Casey getting to bat.

*

But Flynn let only one drive, to everyone’s astonishment;

And Blake, the much despised, ripped the lid off the ball.

When the dust rose and the men saw what had happened,

Jimmy was safe at second and Flynn hugging third.

*

From five thousand throats and more a loud cry went up.

It rumbled through the valley, rattled in the hollow.

It hit the mountain and fell back on the plain;

For Casey, the mighty Casey, he was moving toward the bat.

*

There was calm in Casey’s manner as she headed to her seat.

There was pride in Casey’s bearing, a smile on Casey’s face;

And when, answering the cheers, he slightly removed his hat

No stranger in the crowd could doubt that Casey was at bat.

*

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed dirt on his hands.

Five thousand tongues clapped when he wiped it on his shirt.

Then, as the writing threw the ball on his hip,

Challenge flashed in Casey’s eyes, a smirk curling Casey’s lip.

*

Now the leather-covered spherical chamber hurtles through the air,

And Casey stood looking at him with haughty grandeur there.

Close to the robust batsman, the ball sped up unheard –

“That’s not my style,” Casey said. “One strike,” said the referee.

*

From the pews, black with people, a muffled roar rose

Like the beating of storm waves on a distant and severe shore.

“Kill him! Kill the referee!” someone yelled on the dais.

They probably would have killed him if Casey hadn’t raised her hand.

*

With a smile of Christian charity, the great Casey’s face shone.

Stilling the growing tumult, he ordered the game to continue.

He signaled to the pitcher and once more the spheroid flew away;

But Casey still ignored him, and the referee said, “Two strikes.”

*

Fraud! Thousands cried madly, an echo answered: Fraud!

But one dismissive look from Casey, and the audience was stunned.

They saw his face turn stern and cold, they saw his muscles tense,

And they knew Casey would never let that ball pass again.

*

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, her teeth are gritted with hate.

He slams his bat on home plate with cruel violence;

And now the pitcher has the ball, and now he releases it;

And now the air breaks from 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.

Somewhere the men laugh and somewhere the children scream;

But there is no joy in Mudville: the mighty Casey has struck out.