História: Casey At The Bat

Baseball não é só bater a bolinha forte para o campo externo. É também fonte de inspiração pra coisas épicas.

Casey At The Bat (Casey ao Bastão) é um poema escrito em 1.888 por Ernest Thayer. Foi publicado primeiramente no The San Francisco Examiner em 3 de junho do mesmo ano, e se tornou um dos escritos mais conhecidos da literatura americana.

O texto narra o final de um jogo do time de Baseball da pequena e fictícia cidade de Mudville. O time da casa entra na parte baixa da 9ª entrada e está perdendo por 4-2, mas os 5.000 torcedores acreditam na vitória se Casey, o melhor rebatedor do time, chegasse ao bastão.

Mas Casey está a 5 rebatedores de atuar, e os dois primeiros da entrada, Cooney e Barrows, são eliminados por GroundOut na 1ª base. Com a torcida calada, mas ainda com esperança, o Mudville Nine consegue uma rebatida simples com Flynn e uma dupla com Jimmy Blake.

Com 2 corredores em posição de anotar corrida e empatar o jogo, finalmente Casey, o poderoso Casey, vai ao bastão. Os 5.000 no estádio vão à loucura. Um Comeback histórico com 2 outs na 9ª se aproximava pelo bastão dele, e foi confiante para a plate.

Mas talvez confiante demais.

Impulsionado “por 10 mil olhos e 5 mil línguas”, Casey deixa passar o primeiro arremesso de propósito. “Não era do seu estilo”. E ele conta para um strike. “Matem ele, matem o umpire!!”, pediam as pessoas, inconformadas com a chamada.

Próximo arremesso, e Casey nem ensaia um swing. Strike dois. Ele estava CERTO de que acertaria a bola e uma só tentativa. E escolheu fazer isso numa perigosa contagem 0-2.

No 3º arremesso, finalmente Casey foi pra rebatida. O ar é cortado pela força do bastão, e em algum lugar a alegria irradia, com sol, felicidade e crianças sorrindo.

Mas esse lugar não é MudVille.

Casey sofreu Strikeout.

Pra quem manja das manjarias, aqui abaixo está o texto original na íntegra.

Nesse link, um áudio super recomendado, gravado em 1898 num cilindro. Ouçam enquanto leem!

Aqui, uma animação feita pela Disney em 1946 com essa história e também a sua sequência, Casey Bats Again.

É curioso como um relato de 126 anos atrás descreve um jogo exatamente como o conhecemos hoje.

"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.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

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 but a whack at that –

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

And the former was a lulu and the latter was a fake

So upon that 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 Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there 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 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-

"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 a-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 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."