FAVORITE POEM PROJECT

	May 8, 2000
	With the baseball season underway, an ode to the national pastime. It's part of poet laureate Robert Pinsky's project of asking Americans to read their favorite poems. Here is a young fan from Atlanta.

LEE SAMUEL: My name is Lee Samuel, I'm 11 years old, I go to Fernmick Elementary and I'm in sixth grade. (Cheers and applause) I'm the President of my school and my family has just adopted a four-year old named Jesse, from Bulgaria. My favorite team is the Atlanta Braves, because I live here in Atlanta. And they've always been my favorite team, and they're very, very good, even though the Yankees always beat them. The poem I chose is "Case at the Bat," and the reason is I love baseball, it's my life. I learned to read from looking through my many, many, many baseball cards. And these are my better baseball cards. And on the back of every card they have stats. And I learned to read, like, my first word was, like, "Pirates" and "Giants" or "Barry Bonds"-- he's one of my favorite players. And this is my most valuable card. It's a Ken Griffey, Jr., worth $100. I have a lot of posters, especially of Ken Griffey, Jr., because he's my favorite player. I have one there, one there, one there, one there, one there. I have two calendars oft baseball, one of major leagues and one of the hall of fame major leagues. Everything I do is baseball. I watch baseball every night on TV, and "Case at the Bat" has always been my favorite poem. "'Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer.'" 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 cling 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 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 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 - 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 some one in the stand; And it's likely they'd had 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 has fled 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 little children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville-- great Casey has struck out. Ernest L. Thayer