Baseball is more than a game. It is rhythm and ritual, heart and hope. A love letter to summer, a symbol of American identity. With its “boys of summer” and “field of dreams,” the sport has captivated fans for generations.

On this day in 1888, Ernest Lawrence Thayer’s epic poem Casey at the Bat first appeared in the San Francisco Examiner. With its perfect pacing and dramatic punchline, the poem quickly became a favorite among orators and bedtime storytellers. Thayer never accepted royalties for his work—and never published another poem—but his one legendary piece has endured.

Here’s the tale: Bottom of the ninth. Runners on second and third. Two outs. The crowd roars as Casey, the mighty slugger, steps up to the plate. Two strikes. One final swing. He misses. The mighty has fallen.

And so it ends: “There is no joy in Mudville — Mighty Casey has struck out.”

Baseball echoes life—full of luck, talent, memories, and dreams. There’s magic in the crack of the bat, in a no-hitter, in the 7th inning stretch. There’s purpose in fair play, in cheering from the bleachers, and in giving your all, every time.

As poet Walt Whitman said, “I see great things in baseball.”

And as former baseball commissioner Bart Giamatti reflected:
“It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring when everything else begins again and blossoms in summer... then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.”

“You count on it. Rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive. And then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most... it stops.”