Bert Shepard

True baseball fans will know this story. I hope my post will do justice to all who face adversity with the inner strength this fellow did. I first ran across him in a book several years aago.

While flying a P-38 over Germany during the war, Bert was shot down. As a result he was taken prisoner, lost his leg and was later traded in a POW exchange with Germany in early 1945. I know, you’re saying “So what? A lot of guys were wounded, maimed and came home when the war was over.” And you’re right about that. But there’s something special about Bert’s story.

On August 4, 1945; only 7 months after being exchanged as a POW; Bert was home and working. He had mastered the art of walking on an artificial leg while a POW in Germany. So, when he came home he was quick to return to work. Actually, it was kind of an extension of his old job.

The night of August 4, 1945 saw the Washington Senators baseball team being soundly whipped by the Red Sox. In the 4th inning the score was already 14-2. Bert was watching the game anxiously; he really loved the Senators and wanted the team to win. But things weren’t looking too good on that score. (Forgive the pun.)

While Bert probably wasn’t that surprised at the manager’s decision to put in a relief pitcher, he was surprised at the choice of the man who would be pitching. It would be Bert.

You see Bert was a pitcher before the war; and afterwards; in only 7 months’ time, he had become the Pitching Coach for the Washington Senator’s. And on the night of August 4, 1945, he made history; when he took the pitcher’s mound and became the first man with an artificial leg to pitch in a Major League Baseball game. You may know him as Bert Shepard.

"Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

It was 127 years ago that Ernest Lawrence Thayer published his immortal poem "Casey at the Bat" in the San Francisco Daily Examiner. Baseball had been around since the days of Cooperstown, New York but had recently been catching on like wildfire all across the country. By the 1890's it was recognized as our National Sport. So in the interest of anyone who has not read this poem, or for those of you with kids who have never heard it before, I thought I'd reprint it here. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did when I was about 8 years old and heard it for the first time. There is also some fun history associated with the poem.

Thayer was a rich kid, went to Harvard, joined the Hasty Pudding Club and edited the Harvard Lampoon. He also became interested in baseball along with his best freinds, Sam Winslow and William Randolph Hearst. After college he was presented with a choice, work in the family mill business back East, or take a job managing the San Francisco Daily Examiner for William Hearst's father. He packed his bags and headed West.

He soon began writing columns and some verse for the paper and on June 3rd, 1888"Casey at the Bat" made it's appearance to little fanfare. A writer named Archibald Gunter clipped it from the paper and placed it in his wallet. There it would remain until August 14th, 1888. A strange confluence of events occured that day. Gunter was in New York to visit two friends, William DeWolf Hopper and Digby Bell, who were both actors and baseball fans. They convinced their boss, a Colonel McCaull to accompany them to the Polo Grounds for a game between the New York Giants and the Chicago White Stockings. They hoped to do a little advertising at the game for their show and invited the players to attend it that night.

The game was won by the visiting Chicago White Stockings with a score of 4-2. When the game ended Mr. Gunter pulled out the tattered poem from his wallet and DeWolf Hopper strode out onto the field and read the poem in his deep, thundering voice. The crowd went wild. DeWolf Hopper made the poem famous and the poem made him a star. It was also Ernest Lawrence Thayer's 25th birthday.

"Casey at the Bat"

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine
that day,
The score stood four to six with but an inning left
to play.
And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows
did the same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the
game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the
rest,
With that hope which springs eternal within the
human breast.
For they thought if only Casey could get a whack
at that,
They’d put up even money with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did
Blake,
And the former was a pudding and the latter was a
fake;
So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence
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 the much despised Blakey tore the cover off
the ball,
And when the dust had lifted and they saw what
had occurred,
There was Blakey safe on second, and Flynn a
hugging third.

Then from the gladdened multitude went up a
joyous yell,
It bounded from the mountain top and rattled in the
dell,
It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on 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 as he wiped them
on his shirt;
And while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into
his hip —
Defiance gleamed from 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 hain’t my style,” said Casey — “Strike one,”
the Umpire said.

From the bleachers black with people there rose a
sullen roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and
distant shore,
“Kill him! kill the Umpire!” shouted some one
from the stand —
And it’s likely they’d have done it had not Casey
raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s
visage shone,
He stilled the rising tumult and he bade the game
go on;
He signalled to the pitcher and again the spheroid
flew,
But Casey still ignored it and the Umpire said
“Strike two.”

“Fraud!” yelled the maddened thousands, and the
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 would not let that ball
go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip; his teeth are
clenched with 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.”

"Under the El Tracks" by Glen Russell Slater (2013)

Glen Slater is a friend of mine; despite the fact that I know almost nothing about baseball. He’s generous in that way. He forgives me my shortcomings. He also writes stories and verse, of which I know a bit more than baseball. That's him in the red shirt in the front row above.

 This poem was written by Glen last year and is a perfect example of the free verse I wish I could write. Of course, Glen thinks it’s no big deal. But that’s because it’s easy for him. He has a blog of his own on Wordpress; though he hates the word “blog.” I hope you will drop in on him sometime at his site;

http://talltalesandtruestories.wordpress.com/

“Under the El Tracks”

by Glen Russell Slater

I feel so naked and awkward

In the sunshine

As if I’m being X-rayed by the stuck-up jerks on Lefferts Boulevard

In the rain I have some shelter

No one sees me.

But not in the sunshine, which exposes me.

Under the el tracks, they share a kind of common misery

Under the el tracks, I don’t feel so alone in my loneliness.

I wish that I lived near the el tracks

that would cover the boulevard

And I could get lost underneath the din and the dark

and the vibrating roar that envelops your ears and your entire body

from your head to your shoes.

Of the el Train of Jamaica Avenue in Woodhaven

Or the el tracks on Brighton Beach Avenue.

Once upon a time,

One Brooklyn winter,

I made sandwiches at Perlmutter’s Luncheonette on Brighton Beach Avenue

Under the el tracks.

I used to screw up the sandwiches and give the wrong change

because I was so nervous as I was scrutinized by the tough guy jerks

who went in there to place bets

On basketball games.

They’d eat sandwiches and drink coffee and talk about the point spread.

And that funny-looking damn little Russian, that genius, wise-ass teenager

who worked there, too.

He made everything look so easy;

I wished the bastard would go back to the Soviet Union.

I’d deliver those sandwiches to those batty Russian broads every day

in that beauty parlor

above Weintraub’s hardware store

That was in the mid-80s.

But I didn’t know how good I had it……..

Lost underneath the el tracks.

Billy Sunday - Golden Chains of Love (1929)

One of the most controversial religious figures of the 1920’s and 1930’s used to be play ball for Chicago, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia before becoming an evangelist. He was known as one of the fastest base runners to ever take the field. His name was Billy Sunday, who could preach as fast as he could run.

He is most often remembered for his speech about sin, in which he vowed, “I'm against sin. I'll kick it as long as I've got a foot, and I'll fight it as long as I've got a fist. I'll butt it as long as I've got a head. I'll bite it as long as I've got a tooth. And when I'm old and fistless and footless and toothless, I'll gum it till I go home to Glory and it goes home to perdition!"

I’ve never been too overly fond of evangelists, seeing them as more of a division than a unifying force. Religious beliefs are so very personal in nature, while evangelical preachers often lead flocks who have little knowledge of their own religion beyond what the preacher tells them. Still, in the days before television, the revival meetings were a form of entertainment. They swept into towns in a carnival like atmosphere, sucking everyone along with them and leaving town flush with cash.

Not much has changed since the days of Billy Sunday. Were he alive today he would be in Heaven here in Hell on Earth. But, with so much for him to rant about; from the moral decay of society in general, to the misguided; and sometimes downright evil; intentions of most of our elected officials, he would probably be speechless. Still, the videos are fun to watch.

"Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer (1888)

The 2012 Major League Baseball opens today with the Cardinals and Marlins facing off at the new stadium in Florida. The season runs through October 3rd and will, as usual, galvanize millions of Americans, as it always has. In 1888 Ernest Lawrence Thayer's classic American poem "Casey At the Bat" was published to much acclaim in the San Francisco Examiner.

There are actually 3 versions of the poem, each one only slightly different. I have used the standard version, which I have posted here before. It has stood the test of time, and has actually been sung by various artists throughout the years. Even James Earl Jones has done a musical version of the piece. But nothing, and I mean nothing, can ever replace the inner voice when reading this poem. The tension, anger and disappointment all come through in the words themselves. With its simplistic rhyme scheme and cadence, this is always a sure winner with younger children, and a great way to introduce them to the joys of winning, as well as the necessity of sometimes coming up short. Now; "Play Ball!"

"Casey At the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

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.

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

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
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 despis-ed, 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 its 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.

The Allure of Defeat - "Casey at the Bat" Revisited

Some time back (last June) I posted the epic poem "Casey at the Bat", which is about the losing team in Muddville, and the struggle that Casey waged that day while trying to win the game. I have had many comments about that piece. It is an iconic piece of Americana. It speaks to our love of the underdog, which dates back to our nation's founding. We were the underdogs! The following was received as noted, and it posed an interesting question, causing me to ponder on the subject of just why we love the underdog. Here is this well written, and insightful e-mail, followed by my view on the subject. I love when I get these type of e-mails, allowing me to interact with the reader. After all, that's what it's all about...

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New comment on "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer.

Thursday, June 2, 2011 12:07 PM

From: This sender is DomainKeys verified"Fegan's Pocket"

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To: robertrswwilliams@yahoo.com
Fegan's Pocket has left a new comment on your post ""Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer":

Living in Massachusetts near Boston I can relate to the downfall of the hero of this poem. The Red Sox had 48 years of "Mudville". It seems that everyone who knows and loves baseball knows "Casey..." Is there an epic poem about winning baseball? I can't think of one at the moment. Which begs the case; Why do we hold this poem so dear? Why do Red Sox and Cubs fans remain fans? Is it Aristotelian? Aristotle described the plot of Greek Tragedies as a hero with a minor flaw who is destroyed because of it. Are baseball fans fond of the pathos of defeat rather than the elation of triumph? This could explain why "Casey" and the Red Sox and the Cubs still have such devoted fans.

My own take on this subject is that baseball is the workingman's game. And the workingman is usually the underdog in the game of life. The image of the blue collar guy rooting for his favorite team is ingrained in our collective psyches. The Brooklyn Dodgers are a perfect example. Even when they won the pennant they were still lovingly referred to as "the Bums."

Life is just like baseball, the bases are always loaded and the count is often 3/2. The next pitch could change everything.

Here's Jackie Robinson stealing base in the 1955 World Series;

Packers Pine Tar Soap - Treasure From a Yard Sale

This is the tin container for a 1939 bar of Packers Pine Tar Soap. I got it at a yard sale the other day for 50 cents. Prices range from $3 on E-bay to $32 on a vintage antique site. If you have the bar of soap that goes with it the price is dramaticaly higher.

I've never really been one for yard sales. But we were passing one on Sunday and the glass bottles and stuff caught my eye, so we turned around. I was attracted to this colorful little tin box right away. Of course it gave me a good excuse to google pine tar soap, which we never used in my house growing up,and until Sunday had never heard of.

Turns out that pine tar is a sticky substance produced by the high temperatures used to carbonize wood. The reason we carbonize wood is to make things such as charcoal and pine tar. I knew that charcoal is used for cooking but the pine tar was still a mystery beyond knowing that it was once used in soap.

Carpenters take note, pine tar is also a preservative for wood in harsh conditions. Ship decks and rigging are prime examples. If I had been born 100 years earlier I would know this from my time aboard ships. It is also a veterinary care product, being used for an antiseptic as well as hoof care. But wait... we're not done yet.

In the sports world pine tar is used to give the batter a better grip on the bat. There is actually a rule on this in Professional Baseball. Rule 1.10(c) of the 2002 Official Rules of Major League Baseball allows batters to coat the handle of the bat no more than 18 inches on the handle in order to get more "pop" out of a hit. There is actually a game known as "The Pine Tar Game" which took place between the Kansas City Royals and the New York Yankees on July 24th, 1983. George Brett of the Royals hit a home run which put them ahead with a score of 5-4. Billy Martin, manager of the Yankees called a protest and the umpire nullified the hit. But the League President overruled the ump (didn't know he could do that!) and the game was rescheduled for August 6th. The Royals won.

Pine tar has also been used by pitchers in colder weather for greater control of the ball. The practice is illegal under 8.02 of the same Official Rules of Major League Baseball. Apparently what's good for the bat is not always good for the balls.

Well, I've gotten my 50 cents worth from this little treasure already. Even learned a few things, too. But I'll still keep it around anyway, simply because I like the way it looks.