Today I picked up Casey at the Bat by Ernest Thayer and read the poem for the very  first time.  What surprised me most was not that (spoiler alert) he strikes out at the end, but that I hadn’t read the piece before.  I’ve loved baseball since I was nine years old,  been interested in poetry for years, and I’ve always known the legendary story of Thayer’s “Casey.”  So, why hadn’t I ever indulged in this little piece of baseball culture before?

The answer I came up with might not make sense to everyone but, for me, Casey at the Bat had become so entangled in the web of baseball myth that I didn’t think of it physically existing in real life.  This realization led me to contemplate the rich history of the sport.

Professional athletes now are followed around like celebrities.  We see scandalous pictures of them, read about their favorite breakfast cereal (Barry Zito’s is cinnamon life), and know when they’re having affairs with Madonna.  However, there was a time when baseball players were made out to be more than wealthy, vapid men.

Babe Ruth’s real name was George Herman Ruth, but he’s been crowned  “The Sultan of Swat,” “The Colossus of Clout”, and “The Great Bambino.”    How he acted off the field was never the focus.  His play on the field in “The House that Ruth Built” was what awed spectators.

So many others share that status among the baseball gods.  I know I can’t name them all, but I can bring up a few.  “Shoeless Joe” Jackson is known for supposedly playing a game barefoot when his new cleats hurt his feet.   Ted Williams, or  “Teddy Ball-Game” called himself the greatest hitter who ever lived.  William McCovey has his cove and Johnny Peski his pole.

As I’m writing, all I can think of are all the legendary men I’ve left out.  Each has their own nickname or anecdote.  I think it’s interesting that those stories are what come to mind before we realize that the men are not fiction; they were real people before they too became entangled in the myth.