Giggles 'n Bits
The smell of fall is in the air. The leaves are just starting to turn. The corn is as high as an elephant's eye. And the Cubs are playing competitive baseball. But perhaps greatest of them all, is Giggles 'n Bits has a new troupe to keep the laughs rolling.
The new troupe members have been immortalized in a poem honoring this historic baseball season. All troupe members should plan on meeting for our first rehearsal TUESDAY, September 22 after school in the Almond Black Box.
The new troupe members have been immortalized in a poem honoring this historic baseball season. All troupe members should plan on meeting for our first rehearsal TUESDAY, September 22 after school in the Almond Black Box.
Giggles at the Bat
Mr. Ernest Adam Lawrence Thayer Miller
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Warren eleven that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Nick Skradski died at first, and Daniel Plumhoff 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
Clung to the 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 Grace Attiyeh preceded Casey, as did also Janelle Detina 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 Grace let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Janelle, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and Joe Raasch saw what had occurred,
There was Grace safe at second and Janelle a-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 Brandon Tamseviclus, 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;
The writhing pitcher, Gavin Zbynski, 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!” Megan Hawkworth 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 Eric Niesen on 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 signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the Megan said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened Nicolette Zangara, 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 Gavin 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 favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere Julian Martinez shouts,
But there is no joy in Warren—mighty Casey has struck out.
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Warren eleven that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Nick Skradski died at first, and Daniel Plumhoff 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
Clung to the 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 Grace Attiyeh preceded Casey, as did also Janelle Detina 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 Grace let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Janelle, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and Joe Raasch saw what had occurred,
There was Grace safe at second and Janelle a-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 Brandon Tamseviclus, 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;
The writhing pitcher, Gavin Zbynski, 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!” Megan Hawkworth 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 Eric Niesen on 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 signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the Megan said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened Nicolette Zangara, 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 Gavin 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 favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere Julian Martinez shouts,
But there is no joy in Warren—mighty Casey has struck out.
