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The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but an inning left to play.
And when Cooney fell at first, and Barrows met the same,
A hush of sorrow drifted down upon the homeward game.
A scattered few were rising, hats pulled low to shade their pride,
While others stared in silence, stung by hope that would not die.
For there, beneath the weight of fate, one whisper stirred the air—
“If Casey’d only get a chance, we'd still have reason there.”
But Flynn, the weak, was up to bat, and Blake—no better known—
Together, seemed the final breath of victory long blown.
Yet Flynn, with wrinkled jersey and a look half-lost in doubt,
Swung true, and sent a dribbler where no glove could seek it out.
And Blake, once scorned by grandmothers and beer-soaked fans alike,
Found lightning in his lumber and unleashed a sudden strike.
The stands, near-slumped in sorrow, rose like wheat before the rain—
For now the crowd beheld the shape of Casey in the lane.
There was grace in Casey’s motion as he strode into the light,
And something in his silence made the doubters hold their spite.
He tipped his cap but not with glee—his eyes betrayed the cost
Of every dream now hung upon the swing that might be lost.
Ten thousand hearts were pounding as he dug into the dirt,
Five thousand throats dry with fear he might again desert.
The pitcher’s brow was damp with dread, his fingers clenched in chalk,
As Casey stood as still as stone and eyed the coming rock.
The ball went screaming through the air—so fast it split the din—
And Casey let it whistle past with not so much a grin.
The umpire’s cry rang harsh and cold—“Strike one,” the judgment came,
And murmurs filled the bleachers like a far-off rising flame.
Another pitch, another pause—strike two fell swift and low.
Casey hadn’t flinched a hair, but something ceased to glow.
The wind was still, the world grew tight, the sky itself seemed strained,
And some could swear that Casey’s breath for just a moment waned.
Then came the third—a curving whip that tore through light and air,
And Casey swung—a mighty cut!—and missed it clean and bare.
The ball sank in the catcher’s mitt, the silence rang like lead—
For every soul in Mudville knew the game was truly dead.
But lo! The umpire raised his hand, then shook his weary head,
And called, in voice both firm and odd—“That pitch was wide,” he said.
A gasp went up, then scattered cheers, then silence all around,
For none could quite believe the gift that lingered on the mound.
The pitcher stared, the catcher swore, the crowd stood dumb with shock—
Yet Casey, pale and trembling now, re-buttoned his loose smock.
He glanced up once, then met the eye of someone in the stands—
A child, no older than a spring, with ball-glove in her hands.
And something in that gaze took hold—less glory now than grace,
As Casey turned to face the pitch with mercy in his face.
The ball came in, a comet bright, its seams a spinning star,
And Casey met it not with pride, but wonder from afar.
His bat flew swift—a quiet prayer—and struck the sphere so true,
It soared beyond the deepest fence and out of mortal view.
No shout arose at once, no hats were flung into the skies—
For all who watched felt something pass that opened inner eyes.
A silence fell more holy than the hush of sacred tombs—
As if the breath of Heaven stirred between the outfield blooms.
And somewhere men still curse the call, and claim the game was flawed,
And somewhere cynics scoff and jest at anything called God.
But somewhere hearts remember—when all seemed lost and done—
That mercy bore a second chance… and light reclaimed the sun.
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