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The most famous poem ever written about baseball is "Casey at the Bat," penned about 70 years ago by a former Harvard student, Ernest Thayer of Worcester, Mass. He wrote it in San Francisco. The poem was recited on the stage thousands of times by De Wolf Hopper. It was not written about any particular player or situation. It simply was the result of Thayer's imagination working on a mythical ball game.

The pitcher who fanned Casey is baseball's "Unknown Man."
The poem follows:
"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
more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and
Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
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 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 lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon the stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's 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 the men saw what had occurred,
There was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rambled 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 when 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
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 some one in
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 signalled 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
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 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.