This wonderful play on Casey at the Bat was sent to us by a clever reader who was inspired by today’s unfortunate news that Sears will not be coming to Ohio…
KASICH AT THE BAT
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for Ohio that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Kvamme died at first, and Bob Evans was 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 Kasich could get but a whack at that –
We’d put up even money, now, with Kasich at the bat.
First Taft preceded Kasich, as did also Preacher Ted,
The former was a legacy and the latter was well read
And people hoped and prayed to see Ohio back on track,
Putting their faith on proud King Kasich getting to the bat.
And Taft let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Strickland, the much yearned for, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Strickland safe at second and Bobby 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 Kasich, mighty Kasich, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Kasich’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in the King’s bearing and a smile on Kasich’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Kasich 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 Kasich’s eye, a sneer curled Kasich’s lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
In the guise Chiquita leaving Ohio, not wanting to be there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
“That ain’t my style,” said Kasich. “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.
“We need jobs! A living wage!” shouted someone on the stand;
The people around him nodded, and King Kasich raised his hand.
With a smile of forced charity great Kasich’s visage shone;
He spun the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Kasich still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”
“Idiot!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one disdainful look from Kasich and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they hoped that Kasich wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Kasich’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,
Four hundred million dollars for Sears is the force of Kasich’s blow.
Oh, somewhere in Illinois the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing in Carolina and Wall Street hearts are light,
And the Sears’ CEO is laughing, and Chicago children shout;
But there is no joy in Ohio – mighty Kasich has struck out.
– Ohio’s 99%
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