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Covid at the Bat The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day: The score stood four proposals down, with one idea more how to play , And then when Clark died with the first, and Manfred did the same, A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons 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 Manfred could but get a whack at that— We'd put up even money now, with owners and union both at bat." But Clark preceded Manfred, as did also Buster Olney’s take, And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake; So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance Covid would let us bat. But Players let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Manfred, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred, There were players taking practice safe at parks and a-hugging third. Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, For Covid, mighty Covid, was grabbing at the bat. There was ease in Covid’s manner as he stopped them in their place; There was pride in Covid's bearing and a smile lit Covid's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Covid at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on it as players rubbed their hands with dirt; Five thousand tongues were silence when they rubbed it on their shirt; Then while the writhing pitcher wiped the virus that hung upon his hip, Defiance flashed in Covid's eye, a sneer curled Covid's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Covid stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy virus the ball unheeded sped— "That ain't my style," said Covid. "He tested positive!" the doctor 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 doctor!" shouted someone on the stand; And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Covid raised his hand . With a smile of unChristian charity great Covid's visage shone; It stilled the rising tumult; the game would not go on; It signaled to the Phillies, and once more the Blue Jays flew; But Covid still ignored it and the doctor said, "that’s two!" "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Covid and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Covid wouldn't let us play ball again. The sneer is gone from player’s lips, their teeth are clenched in hate, He pounds with cruel violence his infection upon the plate; And now the owners hold the ball, and now they all let go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Covid’s blow. 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 baseball —mighty Covid has struck them out. AND HERE IS THE ORIGINAL - MY APOLOGIES TO MR THAYER Casey at the Bat Ernest Lawrence Thayer - 1863-1940 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 pall-like silence fell upon the patrons 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 put up even money now, with Casey at the bat." But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake; 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 five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; It pounded on 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 lit 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 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 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 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 dun sphere flew; But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!" "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. Oh, somewhere in this favoured 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. This poem is in the public domain.