The Saga Of Casey

Casey At The Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;

The score stood four to two with but one inning left 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 but get a whack at that,

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

But Flynn proceed Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a no-good and the latter was a fake;

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 despised, 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 their 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.

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 as 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.

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 from 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 spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud," cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered "Fraud,"

But one scornful look from Casey, and the multitude was awed.

The 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 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.

Written by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, circa 1888

Casey's Revenge

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;

There were muttered oaths and curses -- every fan in town was sore.

"Just think," said one, "how soft it looked with Casey at the bat!

And then to think he'd go and spring a bush-league trick like that."

All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless "shine."

They called him "Strike-out Casey" from the mayor down the line,

And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,

While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey's eye.

The lane is long, someone has said, that never turns again,

And fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.

And Casey smiled -- his rugged face no longer wore a frown;

The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.

All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had come

To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;

And when he stepped into the box, the multitude went wild.

He doffed his cap in proud disdain -- but Casey only smiled.

"Play ball!," the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began;

But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan

Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun

Their hopes sank low -- the rival team was leading "four to one."

The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;

But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.

The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard

When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third.

Three men on base -- nobody out -- three runs to tie the game!

A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame;

But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night

When the fourth one "fouled to catcher" and the fifth "flew out to right."

A dismal groan in chorus came -- a scowl was on each face --

When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;

His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate;

He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;

There were no wild and wooly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.

They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored, "Strike him out!"

But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.

The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it spread;

Another hiss, another groan. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

Zip! Like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee--

"Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

No roasting for the umpire now -- his was an easy lot;

But here the pitcher whirled again -- was that a rifle shot?

A whack! a crack! and out through space the leather pellet flew,

A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.

Above the fence in center field, in rapid whirling flight,

The sphere sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.

Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit,

But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit!

Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun.

And some where bands no longer play children have no fun;

And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall;

But Mudville hearts are happy now -- for Casey hit the ball!

Written by James Wilson - 1907

Casey Twenty Years Later

The Bugville Team was surely up against a rocky game;

The chances were they'd win defeat and undying fame;

Three men were hurt and two were benched; the score stood six to four.

They had to make three hard-earned runs in just two innings more.

"It can't be done," the captain said, a pallor on his face;

"I've got two pitchers in the field, a mutt on second base;

And should another man get spiked or crippled in some way,

The team would sure be down and out, with eight men left to play.

"We're up against it anyhow as far as I can see;

My boys ain't hitting like they should and that's what worries me;

The luck is on the other side, no pennant will we win;

It's mighty tough, but we must take our medicine and grin."

The eighth round opened; one, two, three; the enemy went down;

The Bugville boys went out the same, the captain wore a frown;

The first half of the ninth came round, two men had been called out,

The Bugville's pitcher broke a thumb and could not go the route.

A deathly silence settled o'er the crowd assembled there.

Defeat would be allotted them; They felt it in the air;

With only eight men in the field 'twould be a gruesome fray,-

Small wonder that the captain cursed the day he learned to play.

"Lend me a man to finish with," he begged the other team;

"Lend you a man?" the foe replied; My boy, you're in a dream;

We want to win the pennant, too-that's what we're doing here.

There's only one thing you can do-call for a volunteer."

The captain stood and pondered in a listless sort of way;

He never was a quitter and would not be today!

"Is there within the grandstand here"-his voice rang loud and clear-

"A man who has the sporting blood to be a volunteer?"

Again that awful silence settled o'er the multitude;

Was there a man among them with such recklessness imbued?

The captain stood with cap in hand, while hopeless was his glance,

And then a short and stocky man cried out, "I'll take a chance."

Into the field he bounded with a step both firm and light;

"Give me the mask and mitt," he said; "let's finish up the fight.

The game is now beyond recall; I'll last at lest a round;

Although I'm ancient you will find me muscular and sound."

His hair was sprinkled here and there with little streaks of gray;

Around his eyes and on his brow a bunch of wrinkles lay.

The captain smiled despairingly and slowly turned away.

"Why, he's all right," on rooter yelled. Another, "Let him play."

"All right, go on," the captain sighed; the stranger turned around,

Took off his coat and collar, too, and threw them on the ground.

The humor of the situation seemed to hit them all,

And as he donned the mask and mitt, the umpire called, "Play ball!"

Three balls the pitcher at him hurled, three balls of lightning speed;

The stranger caught them all with ease and did not seem to heed.

Each ball had been pronounced a strike, the side had been put out,

And as he walked in towards the bench, he heard the rooters shout.

One Bugville boy went out on strikes, and one was killed at first;

The captain saw his awkward pose, and gnashed his teeth and cursed.

The third man smashed a double and the fourth man swatted clear,

Then, in a thunder of applause, up came the volunteer.

His feet were planted in the earth, he swung a warlike club;

The captain saw his awkward pose and softly whispered, "Dub!"

The pitcher looked at him and grinned, then heaved a mighty ball;

The echo of that fearful swat still lingers with us all.

High fast and far that spheroid flew; it sailed and sailed away;

It ne'er was found, so it's supposed it still floats on today.

Three runs came in, the pennant would be Bugville's for a year;

The fans and players gathered round to cheer the volunteer.

"What is your name," the captain asked? "Tell us your name," cried all,

as down his cheeks great tears were seen to run and fall.

For one brief moment he was still, then murmured soft and low;

"I'm mighty Casey who struck out just twenty years ago."

Written by S. P. McDonald - 1908

Mudvilles Fate

I wandered back to Mudville, Tom, where you and I were boys,

And where we drew in days gone by our fill of childish joys;

Alas! The town's deserted now, and only rank weeds grow

Where mighty Casey fanned the air just twenty years ago.

Remember Billy Woodson's place, where in the evening's shade,

The bunch would gather and discuss the home runs Casey made?

Dog fennel now grows thick around that "joint" we used to know,

Before old Casey whiffed the breeze some twenty years ago.

The grandstand, too, has been torn down; no bleachers met my gaze

Where you and I were wont to sit in happy bygone days;

The peanuts which we fumbled there have sprouted in a row

Where mighty Casey swung in vain just twenty years ago.

O how we used to cheer him, Tom, each time he came to bat!

And how we held our breath in awe when on the plate he spat;

And when he landed on the ball, how loud we yelped!

But O how loud we cursed when he struck out some twenty years ago!

The diamond is a corn patch now; the outfield's overgrown

With pumpkin vines and weedy plots; the rooters all have flown -

They couldn't bear to live on there, for nothing was the same

Where they had been so happy once before that fatal game.

The village band disbanded soon; the mayor, too resigned.

The council even jumped its graft, and in seclusion pined;

The marshal caught the next train out, and those we used to know

Began to leave in flocks and droves some twenty years ago.

For after Casey fanned that day the citizens all left,

And one by one they sought new lands, heartbroken and bereft;

The joyous shout no more rang out of children at their play;

The village blacksmith closed his shop; the druggist moved away.

Alas for Mudville's vanished pomp when mighty Casey reigned!

Her grandeur has departed now; her glory's long since waned.

Her place upon the map is lost, and no one seems to care

A whit about the old town now since Casey biffed the air.

Written by Grantland Rice - 1910

The Man Who Fanned Casey

I'm just an ordinary fan, and I don't count for much,

But I'm for writing history with a true and honest touch.

It isn't often that I knock - I'll put you next to that -

But I must interpose a word on Casey at the Bat.

Oh, yes, I must admit it; the poem is a beaut.

Been running' through my thinker since our team got the chute.

I heard an actor fan recite it thirteen years ago;

He sort of introduced it in the progress of the show.

It made a hit from gallery, down to the parquet floor;

But now I've got to thinking, and that poem makes me sore.

I'd like to know why any fan should be so off his nut

About the Mighty Casey who proved himself a mutt.

The score, we're told, stood four to two , one inning left to play.

The Frog Town Twirler thought he had things pretty much his way,

So in the ninth, with two men down, he loosened up a bit;

And Flynn scratched out a single, Blake let loose a two-base hit.

Then from the stand and bleachers there arose a mighty roar.

They wanted just that little hit they knew would tie the score.

And there at the bat was Casey, Mighty Casey, Mudville's pride;

But was the Frog Town Slabster sent balloonin', terrified?

Now in the ninth, with two men down and Casey at the bat,

Most pitchers would have let him walk - we all are sure of that.

But Hagen was a hero, he was made of sterner stuff;

It's his kind who gets the medals and the long newspaper puff.

He knew the time had come for him to play a winning role.

He heard the fans a-yelling; it was music to his soul.

He saw the gleam of confidence in Mighty Casey's eye.

"I'll strike him out!" Hagen resolved. "I'll do it or I'll die!"

He stood alone and friendless in that wild and frenzied throng.

There wasn't even one kind word to boost his game along.

But back in Frog Town where they got the plays by special wire

The fans stood ready, if he won, to set the town on fire.

Now Hagen twirls his body on the truest corkscrew plan

And hurls a swift in shoot that cuts the corner of the pan.

But Casey thought the first ball pitched would surely be a ball,

And didn't try to strike it, to the great disgust of all.

Again the Frog Town twirler figures dope on Mudville's pride;

And Casey things the next will be an outshoot breaking wide.

But Hagen shot a straight one down the middle of the plate,

And Casey waited for a curve until it was too late.

A now the mighty slugger is a-hanging' on the string.

If another good one comes along, it's up to him to swing.

The jaunty smile, Hagen observed, has faded from his face,

And a look of straining agony is there to takes its place.

One moment Hagen pauses, hides the ball behind his glove,

And then he drives it from him with a sweeping long arm shove.

And now the air is shattered, and the ball's in the catcher's mitt,

For Casey, Might Casey, hadn't figured on the spit!

Written by T.M. Fowler - 1907

He Never Heard of Casey

I knew a cove who'd never heard of Washington and Lee,

Of Caesar and Napoleon from the ancient jamboree,

But, bli'me, there are queerer things than anything like that,

For here's a cove who never heard of "Casey at the Bat"!

He never heard of Mudville and its wild and eerie call,

"When Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,"

For the stormy roar of welcome that "recoiled upon the flat

As Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat."

"There was easy in Casey's manner," from the Ernest Thayer style,

"There was pride in Casey's bearing," and his tanned face wore a smile,

And when they thundered "Attaboy!" of course he tipped his hat,

But here's a cove who never heard of "Casey at the Bat"!

"Who is Casey?" Can you beat it? Can a thing like this be true?

Is there one who's missed the drama that ripped Mudville through and through?

Is there a fan with soul so dead he never felt the sway

Of these famous lines by Thayer in the good old Thayer way?

"Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded as 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."

The drama grew in force and flame, and Berserk went the mob,

With Casey representing more than Hornsby, Ruth, or Cobb;

And as the pitcher cut one loose as if fired from a gat -

Say, here's a guy who never heard of "Casey at the Bat!"

"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 as the pitcher shot one through to meet the final test

There's one low and benighted fan who never heard the rest.

Ten million never heard of Keats, or Shelley, Burns, or Poe;

But they know "the air was shattered by the force of Casey's blow";

They never heard of Shakespeare, nor of Dickens, like as not,

But they know the somber drama from old Mudville's haunted lot.

He never heard of Casey! Am I dreaming? Is it true?

Is fame but wind-blown ashes when the summer day is through?

Does greatness fade so quickly and is grandeur doomed to die

That bloomed in early morning, ere the dusk rides down the sky?

Is there nothing left immortal in this somber vale called Earth?

Is there nothing that's enduring in its guarding shell of worth?

Is everything forgotten as the new age stumbles on

And the things that we once cherished make their way to helengon?

Is drifting life but dust and dreams to fade within a flash,

Where one forgets the drama of the Master and the Ash?

Where one has missed the saga with its misty flow of tears,

Upon that day of tragedy beyond the trampling years?

"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!"

Rise, De Wolf Hopper, in your wrath, and cut the blighter down!

Although Wang may be forgotten in the passing of renown,

There's a grave crime committed which should take you to the mat,

For here's a cove who never heard of "Casey at the Bat"!

I had an epic written which I thought would never die,

Where they'd build a statue for me with its head against the sky;

I said "This will live forever" - but I've canned it in the vat,

For here's a guy who never heard of "Casey at the Bat"!

Written by Grantland Rice - 1926

Thatcher on the Hill

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Shetland squad that day,

The team surrendered five of six, with four of them away,

And Mudville offered no relief from consternating fans,

Hecklers stood behind the plate and braggarts filled the stands,

"Your town's a joke," some patrons yelled, "Your city is a rash,"

While insults rained from balconies, so did food and trash.

But oh, their own, that hometown team, they loved their Mudville nine,

Mighty Casey walked on water; Barrows healed the blind.

When Shetland took the field that day - a godforsaken sight,

The team looked like a mangy mutt, without its bark or bite,

Dapperman, the catcher, was cursed with stomach pains,

Lackey wasn't fit to play and Dobbs was nursing sprains.

Grey had gone the distance in the evening's late night test,

His muscles needed ice bags and his shoulder needed rest.

So that just left, to tend the hill, Thatcher, Dent, and Rawls,

But Rawlly couldn't throw a strike and Dent threw only balls.

And so that rookie Thatcher, heckled here and cursed,

Stood restless on the muddy hill at the bottom of the first.

There was angst in his demeanor as he paced about the mound,

There was sickness in his stomach as he tended to the ground.

The skipper limped up to the field to stall the brewing rout:

"Just keep us close until the stretch ... then Grey will close it out."

But both they knew that Grey was spent, the game was his alone,

Against the mighty Casey and those sluggers of the throne.

Though Mudville stranded three that frame, no man crossed the plate,

As Thatcher's arm had settled down, his fast ball found its gait,

His breaking balls were lively like his passion for the game,

Not even Mudville faithful could deny his righteous aim.

He scattered hits, and when he did, his jersey hung his heart,

Unlike the polished veterans who practiced for the part.

He nearly ripped his glove in half when Casey, in the fourth,

Took his fast ball over left where then it traveled north.

And in the seventh, Casey's hammer echoed yet again,

Instantly the pitcher knew he threw the cardinal sin,

But Thatcher battled every count and kept his bases clear,

He carved his pitches from the plate and challenged without fear.

Even Shetland's offense showed some moxie in this game,

And Thatcher took a four-two lead into the final frame,

Though the trial wasn't Cooney; his swing was his demise,

And Barrows tried to leg it out but his ball was lacking eyes.

With two men buried, fortune weighed upon the crowd's control,

When, from the first base dugout stairs, rose Casey - in the hole!

But Thatcher never cowered and fought Flynn ounce for ounce,

And caught him on his knuckles; but Flynn - he caught a bounce.

At first base now a'clappin, Flynn placed his dusty socks,

As Blake, who couldn't hit a truck, stepped up into the box.

"Git 'er done," Flynn hollered, "stay tough, and mean and tight,"

And with that, Blake delivered, and spanked one deep to right.

Now patrons here, both young and old, said Thatcher hung his curve,

They said the rookie's arm was done, they said he lost his nerve,

They jeered the vanquished pitcher as the skipper made the call,

Limping to the grassy field and asking for the ball.

But Thatcher, with a hungry plea and first base left to fill,

Bargained with the skipper's sense to leave him on that hill.

"Casey doesn't see a strike!" at last, the skipper said,

As Thatcher turned now to the plate with Casey grinning red.

Then from the swaying bleachers huddled full with Mudville's own,

Came a thunderous commotion like a beastly demon's groan,

It rose above the ballpark and it clamored through the vale,

It broke beyond the neighborhoods and echoed in the dale.

Young Thatcher fixed upon the plate to mute the blaring sound,

He checked the runner back at third and dug into the ground,

And with his lively windup, flung the pill at such a rate,

That it started in below the hands but somehow found the plate.

Casey just ignored it as it beat his outside guess,

Truth was, it wasn't worth a swing - on an empty count no less.

And yet the mob erupted and despised the umpire's view,

'til Casey cleared the calling and absolved the man in blue.

Then Thatcher kicked his foot again, pushing off his wedge,

And this ball came in tighter still - and still it caught the edge,

And still the batsman watched it, and still the patrons cried!

Here Mudville's fate hung on a swing and Casey's pompous pride.

The smile drew from Casey's lip as he spat upon the deck,

He thumped his stick into the plate; he choked upon its neck.

With two strikes at his kneecaps, the next would come in low,

Thought Casey, as he eyed the fence and grimaced at his foe:

No way the kid comes at me when his slider's working fine,

No way the kid brings mustard when the game is on the line.

At once the Shetland hurler propelled a fiery dart,

He sent the ball a'screaming down the axis of the heart,

It started at the buckle and the ball began to rise,

And Casey's angry bat was sprung, so quick to recognize;

But then the pitch, it cleared the zone and here it seemed to dance,

It deftly fooled the catcher as it pulled him from his stance,

And Thatcher, as his ball rose up, could hear her stitches sing,

And desperately the batsman tried to terminate his swing,

But Casey's walk-off homerun bid had sent his club around,

And his brawny stature twisted like a corkscrew in the ground.

Oh, critics study athletes and the fabric of their team,

Brute and brawn are overdrawn and muscle reigns supreme,

Persistence isn't measured when power is the goal,

There is no benchmark for the heart, no scale for the soul.

But somewhere in this favored land, an unknown boxer grins,

Somewhere hustle beats out speed, somewhere courage wins,

Somewhere on a tennis court, a no-name takes the prize,

An underdog is crowned somewhere, and somewhere sleepers rise,

And at some old Kentucky track,

A long shot captures fame,

The mighty may be favored -

But 'tis why we play the game.

Written by Thomas Fronckowiak Jr. - 2007

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

Katie Casey was base ball mad.

Had the fever and had it bad;

Just to root for the home town crew,

Ev'ry sou Katie blew.

On a Saturday, her young beau

Called to see if she'd like to go,

To see a show but Miss Kate said,

"No, I'll tell you what you can do."

"Take me out to the ball game,

Take me out with the crowd.

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,

I don't care if I never get back,

Let me root, root, root for the home team,

If they don't win it's a shame.

For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,

At the old ball game."

Katie Casey saw all the games,

Knew the players by their first names;

Told the umpire he was wrong,

All along good and strong.

When the score was just two to two,

Katie Casey knew what to do,

Just to cheer up the boys she knew,

She made the gang sing this song:

"Take me out to the ball game,

Take me out with the crowd.

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,

I don't care if I never get back,

Let me root, root, root for the home team,

If they don't win it's a shame.

For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,

At the old ball game."

Written by Jack Norworth - 1908

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

Nelly Kelly love baseball games,

Knew the players, knew all their names,

You could see her there ev'ry day,

Shout "Hurray," when they'd play.

Her boy friend by the name of Joe

Said, "To Coney Isle, dear, let's go,"

Then Nelly started to fret and pout,

And to him I heard her shout.

"Take me out to the ball game,

Take me out with the crowd.

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,

I don't care if I never get back,

Let me root, root, root for the home team,

If they don't win it's a shame.

For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,

At the old ball game."

Nelly Kelly was sure some fan,

She would root just like any man,

Told the umpire he was wrong,

All along, good and strong.

When the score was just two to two,

Nelly Kelly knew what to do,

Just to cheer up the boys she knew,

She made the gang sing this song.

"Take me out to the ball game,

Take me out with the crowd.

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,

I don't care if I never get back,

Let me root, root, root for the home team,

If they don't win it's a shame.

For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,

At the old ball game."

Written by Jack Norworth - 1927

Centerfield

Well, beat the drum and hold the phone - the sun came out today!

We're born again, there's new grass on the field.

A-roundin' third, and headed for home, it's a brown-eyed handsome man;

Anyone can understand the way I feel.

Oh, put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;

Put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;

Look at me, I can be Centerfield.

Well, I spent some time in the Mudville Nine, watchin' it from the bench;

You know I took some lumps when the Mighty Casey struck out.

So Say Hey Willie, tell Ty Cobb and Joe DiMaggio;

Don't say "it ain't so", you know the time is now.

Oh, put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;

Put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;

Look at me, I can be Centerfield.

Yeah! I got it, I got it!

Got a beat-up glove, a homemade bat, and brand-new pair of shoes;

You know I think it's time to give this game a ride.

Just to hit the ball and touch 'em all - a moment in the sun;

(pop) It's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!

Oh, put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;

Put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;

Look at me, I can be Centerfield.

Oh, put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;

Put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;

Look at me, I can be Centerfield.

Yeah!

Lyrics by John C. Fogerty - 1985

The Greatest

Little Boy, in a baseball hat

Stands in the field with his ball and bat

Says I am the greatest player of them all

Puts his bat on his shoulder and he tosses up his ball

And the ball goes up and the ball comes down

Swings his bat all the way around

The world's so still you can hear the sound

The baseball falls to the ground

Now the little boy doesn't say a word

Picks up his ball, he is undeterred

Says I am the greatest there has ever been

And he grits his teeth and he tries it again

And the ball goes up and the ball comes down

Swings his bat all the way around

The world's so still you can hear the sound

The baseball falls to the ground

He makes no excuses, He shows no fears

He just closes his eyes and listens to the cheers

Little boy, he adjusts his hat

Picks up his ball, stares at his bat

Says I am the greatest the game is on the line

And he gives his all one last time

And the ball goes up like the moon so bright

Swings his bat with all his might

And the world's so still as still can be

And the baseball falls, and that's strike three

Now it's supper time and his mama calls

Little boy starts home with his bat and ball

Says I am the greatest that is a fact

But even I didn't know I could pitch like that

Lyrics by Don Schlitz - Sung by Kenny Rodgers -1999

A Brand New Start

How often we wish for another chance

To make a fresh beginning.

A change to blot out our mistakes.

And change failure into winning.

And it does not take a special time

To make a brand-new start,

It only takes the deep desire

To try with all our heart.

To live a little better,

And to always be forgiving,

To add a little sunshine

To the world in which we're living.

So never give up in despair

And think that you are through,

For there's always a tomorrow,

And a chance to start anew.

Author Unknown