A poem written in 1888 forshadows Trump's loss in 2020

Recent rumblings from the White House niggled long misplaced memories from my youth. His cry of ''fraud'' and the almost chant like repeats from his supporters just sounded to familiar.

Then it hit me, it was Casey at the Bat.

For those not familiar with this epic poem, it tells the tale of a forlorn baseball team, the ''Mudville Nine'' and it's hero batsman, Casey.
The poem begins by setting the stage of the tale.

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."

Casey was the only chance for the team to win. He was a heavy hitter and home run king in the fashion of Babe Ruth.
As the poem continues ole Casey huffs and puffs and showboats and his supporters are all in a tizzy with hope for him to save the team.

But it was the line that followed the second strike against him that echoed through time and space and advanced to describe today's rejection of the vote.

''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!"

That is what we are hearing echoing up and down the conservative voter base. Fraud, fraud and more fraud.

The rest of the poem ends with utter disillusionment.

''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.


For any who have never read this epic poem of hope and loss, here it is. Enjoy it for the baseball tale it is or take it as a grander tale of invincible leaders and those who put all their hopes and dreams on their shoulders.

Casey at the Bat
By Ernest Lawrence Thayer
1888

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.

Biden was the little league coach patting the boys on the backside right?

a reply to: TerryMcGuire

It is not over until the fat lady sings in the SCOTUS

a reply to: TerryMcGuire

My q anon obsessed Dad recites this poem with great, dramatic flair, every Thanksgiving, to the amusement of grandkids. He prides himself on remembering it from 3rd grade. It's pretty entertaining and a beloved tradition.

Sadly, due in part to the mania associated with Trump and his supporters dismissing cv19. No get-together this year.

The universe is very weird.

a reply to: kosmicjack

My dad the same. Had me memorize it somewhere in grade school. It was weird for me to learn, later on, that there were versions of the poem where certain lines were different. For instance, the first line as I originally learned it went, ''It looked extremely rocky for the Mudvile nine that day.

My dad also was a strong fan of Robert Service who wrote ''The Cremation of Sam McGee'' and ''The Shooting of Dan McGrew''
I still have his copy of Service writings on my desk shelf.