by Rick Wilber
“I’m not, Gus. I’m making it easier for myself.” That seemed true, but McDuff knew Gus wouldn’t like it.
“You are nuts, kid. Lemme tell ya. Plain nuts. I don’t folla ya at all!” Blake was still trying to find out who or what was behind him. He poised very still, then spun around—the bat swung and cracked his nose: loud honking noise, chirping of birds, as Blake staggered around behind home plate holding his nose and splattering catsup all around. Gobble gobble gobble. Gus watched and grinned.
“I mean a guy who can’t hit with a good bat might get lucky with a broken one,” McDuff said. He didn’t mean that at all, but he knew Gus would like it
better.
“Oh, I getcha.” Gus spat pensively. “Yeah, ya right.” The old catcher went back to the plate, showed the ump the proper ruling, and the umpire ordered Blake to get a new bat. Gus was effective like that when he wanted to be. Why not all the time then? It made McDuff wonder.
Blake returned to the plate dragging Burroughs' half-ton bat behind him. He tried to get it on his shoulder, grunted, strained, but he couldn’t even get the end of it off the ground. He sat down under it, then tried to stand. Steam whistled out his nose and ears and a great wrenching sound was heard, but the bat stayed where it was. While the happy crowd once more lifted its humiliating chorus, Flynn called time-out and came waddling in from first to help. The umpire, too, lent a hand. Together, they got it up about as high as Blake’s knees, then had to drop it. Exaggerated thud. Blake yelped, hobbled around grotesquely, pointing down at the one foot still shoed. The toe of it began to swell. The seams of the shoe split. A red bubble emerged, expanded threateningly: the size of a plum, a crimson baseball, grapefruit, volleyball, a red pumpkin. Larger and larger it grew. Soon it was nearly as big as Blake himself. Everyone held his ears. The umpire crawled down behind Flynn and then Flynn tried to crawl behind the umpire. It stretched, quivered. Strained. Flynn dashed over, and reaching into Blake’s behind, seemed to pull something out. Sound of a cork popping from a bottle. The red balloon-like thing collapsed with a sigh. Laughter and relieved gobbling. Blake bent over to inspect his toe. Enormous explosion, blackening Blake’s face. Screams and laughter.
Then Burroughs himself came out and lifted the half-ton bat onto Blake’s shoulder for him. What shoulder he had collapsed and the bat slid off, upending Blake momentarily, so Burroughs next set it on Blake’s head. The head was flat and, though precariously, held it. Burroughs lifted Blake up and set him, bat on head, in the batter’s box. Blake under his burden could not turn his head to see McDuff’s pitch. He just crossed his eyes and looked up at the bat. Gus crouched and signaled. McDuff, through bitter sweaty tears, saw that Flynn was still not back on first, but he didn’t care. He stretched, kicked, pitched. Blake leaned forward. McDuff couldn’t tell if he hit the ball with the bat or his head. But hit it he did, as McDuff knew he would. It looked like an easy pop-up to the mound, and McDuff, almost unbelieving, waited for it. But what he caught was only the cover of the ball. The ball itself was out of sight far beyond the mowed grass of left-center field, way back in the high weeds of the neighboring acreage.
McDuff, watching then for Casey to emerge from the Mudville dugout, failed at first to notice the hubbub going on around the plate. It seemed that the ump had called the hit a homerun, and Gus was arguing that there were no official limits to the Mudville outfield and thus no automatic homers. “You mean,” the umpire cried, “if someone knocked the ball clean to Gehenny, it still wouldn’t be considered outa the park? I can’t believe that!” Gus and the umpire fought over the rulebook, trying to find the right page. The three outfielders were all out there in the next acreage, nearly out of sight, hunting for the ball in the tall grass. “I can’t believe that!” the umpire bellowed, and tore pages from the rulebook in his haste. Flynn and Blake now clowned with chocolate pies and waterpistols.
“Listen,” said McDuff irritably, “whether it’s an automatic homerun or not, they still have to run the bases, so why don’t they just do that, and then it won’t matter.”
Gus’s head snapped up from his search in the rulebooklike he’d been stabbed. He glared fiercely at McDuff, grabbed his arm, pushed him roughly back toward the mound. “Whatsa matter with you?” he growled.
“Lissen! I ain’t runnin’ off nowheres I ain’t got to!” Flynn hollered, sitting down on a three-legged stool which Blake was pulling out from under him. “If it’s automatic, I’ll by gum walk my last mile at my own dadblame ease, thank ya, ma’am!” He sprawled.
“Of course it ain’t automatic,” Gus was whispering to McDuff. “You know that as well as I do, Mac. If we can just get that ball in from the outfield while they’re screwin’ around, we’ll tag both of ’em for good measure and get outa this friggin’ game!”
McDuff knew this was impossible, he even believed that Gus was pulling his leg, yet, goddamn it, he couldn’t help but share Gus’s hopes. Why not? Anyway, he had to try. He turned to the shortstop and sent him out there with orders: “Go bring that ball ini”
The rulebook was shot. Pages everywhere, some tumbling along the ground, others blowing in the wind like confetti. The umpire, on hands and knees, was trying to put it all back together again. Gus held up a page, winked at McDuff, stuffed the page in his back pocket. Flynn and Blake used other pages to light cigars that kept blowing up in their faces. That does it, thought McDuff.
He looked out onto the horizon and saw the shortstop and the outfielders jumping up and down, holding something aloft. And then the shortstop started running in. Yet, so distant was he, he seemed not to be moving.
At home plate, the umpire had somehow discovered the page in Gus’s back pocket, and he was saying: “I just can’t believe it!” He read it aloud: “ ‘Mudville’s field is open-ended. Nothing is automatic here, in spite of appearances. A ball driven even unto Gehenna is not necessarily a homerun. In short, anything can happen in Mudville, even though most things are highly improbable. Blake, for example, has never had a hit, nor has Casey yet struck out.’ And et cetera!” The crowd dutifully applauded the reading of the rulebook. The umpire shook his head. “All the way to Gehenny!” he muttered.
The baserunners, meanwhile, had taken off, and Turkey Blake was flapping around third on his way home, when he suddenly noticed that fat Flynn, who should be preceding him, was still grunting and groaning down the basepath toward first.
The shortstop was running in from the next acreage with the ball.
Blake galloped around the bases in reverse, meeting Flynn head-on with a resounding thud at first. Dazed, Flynn headed back toward home, but Blake set him aright on the route to second, pushed him on with kicks and swats, threw firecrackers at his feet. The fans chanted: “Go! Go! Go!
The shortstop had reached the mowed edge of the outfield. McDuff hustled back off the mound, moved toward short to receive the throw, excitement grabbing at him in spite of himself.
Flynn fell in front of second, and Blake rolled over him. Blake jumped up and stood on Flynn’s head. Honking noise. Flynn somersaulted and kicked Blake in the teeth. Musical chimes.
The shortstop was running in from deep left-center. “Throw it!’ McDuff screamed, but the shortstop didn’t seem to hear him. He ran, holding the ball high like a torch.
Flynn had Blake in a crushing bear-hug at second base, while Blake was clipping Flynn’s suspenders. Blake stamped on Flynn’s feet—sound of wood being crushed to pulp—and Flynn yowled, let go. Blake produced an enormous rocket. Flynn in a funk fled toward third, but his pants fell down, and he tripped.
The shortstop was still running in from the outfield. McDuff was shouting himself hoarse, but the guy wouldn’t throw the goddamn ball. McDuff’s heart was pounding and he was angry at finding himself so caught up in it all.
Flynn had pulled up his pants and Blake was chasing him with the rocket. They crashed into McDuff. He felt trampled and heard hooting and gobbling sounds. When the dust had cleared, McDuff found himself wearing Flynn�
��s pants, ten sizes too large for him, and Blake’s cap, ten sizes too small, and holding a gigantic rocket whose fuse was lit. Flynn, in the confusion, had gone to second and Blake to third. The fuse burned to the end, there was a little pop, the end of the rocket opened, and a little bird flew out.
The shortstop was running in, eyes rolled back, tongue lolling, drenched in sweat, holding the ball aloft.
Flynn and Blake discovered their error, that they’d ended up on the wrong bases, came running toward each other again. McDuff, foreseeing the inevitable, stepped aside to allow them to collide. Instead, they pulled up short and exchanged niceties.
“After you” said Blake, bowing deeply.
“No, no, dear fellow,” insisted Flynn with an answering bow, “after you””
The shortstop stumbled and fell, crawled ahead.
Flynn and Blake were waltzing around and around, saying things like “Age before beauty!” and “Be my guest!” and “Hope springs eternal in the human breast!”, wound up with a chorus of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame!” with all the fans in the stands joining in.
The shortstop staggered to his feet, plunged, gasping, forward.
The umpire came out and made McDuff give Flynn his pants back. He took Blake’s cap off McDuff’s head, looked at it suspiciously, held it over his own head, and was promptly drenched by a couple gallons of water that came flooding out.
McDuff felt someone hanging limply on his elbow. It was the shortstop. Feebly, but proudly, he held up the baseball. Blake, of course, was safe on second, and Flynn was hugging third. The trouble is, thought McDuff, you mustn’t get taken in. You mustn’t think you’ve got a chance. That’s when they really kill you. “All right,” he said to Blake and Flynn, his voice choking up and sounding all too much like a turkey’s squawk, “screw you guys!” They grinned blankly and there was a last dying ripple of mocking gobbling in the stands. Then: silence. Into it, McDuff dropped Blake’s giant rocket. No matter what he might have hoped, it didn’t go off. Then he turned to face the Man.
And now, it was true about the holler that came from the maddened thousands, true about how it thundered on the mountaintop and recoiled upon the flat, and so on. And it was true about Casey’s manner, the maddening composure with which he came out to take his turn at bat. Or was that so, was it true at that? McDuff, mouth dry, mind awhirl, could not pin down his doubt. “Quit!” he said, but he couldn’t, he knew, not till the side was out.
And Casey: who was Casey? A Hero, to be sure. A Giant. A figure of grace and power, yes, but wasn’t he more than that? He was tall and mighty (omnipotent, some claimed, though perhaps, like all fans, they’d got a bit carried away), with a great moustache and a merry knowing twinkle in his eye. Was he, as had been suggested, the One True Thing? McDuff shook to watch him. He was ageless, older than Mudville certainly, though Mudville claimed him as their own. Some believed that “Case" was a transliteration of the initials “K. C.” and stood for King Christ. Others, of a similar but simpler school, opted for King Com, while another group believed it to be a barbarism for Krishna. Some, rightly observing that “case” meant “event,” pursued this reasoning back to its primitive root, “to fall,” and thus saw in Casey (for a case was also a container) the whole history and condition of man, a history perhaps as yet incomplete. On the other hand, a case was also an oddity, was it not, and a medical patient, and maybe, said some, mighty Casey was the sickest of them all. Yet a case was an example, argued others, plight, the actual state of things, thus a metaphysical example, they cried—while a good many thought all such mystification was so much crap, and Casey was simply a good ballplayer. Certainly, it was true, he could belt the hell out of a baseball. All the way to Gehenny, as the umpire liked to put it. Anyway, McDuff knew none of this. He only knew that here he was, that here was Casey, and the stage was set. He didn’t need to know the rest. Just that was enough to shake any man.
Gus walked out to talk to McDuff, while the first baseman covered home plate. Gus kept a nervous eye on Flynn and Blake. “How the hell’d you let that bum hit ya, Mac?”
“Listen, I’m gonna walk Casey,” McDuff said. Gus looked pained. “Firstbase is open, Gus. It’s playing percentages.”
“You and ya goddamn percentages!” snorted Gus. “Ya dumb or somethin’, kid? Dontcha know this guy’s secret?” Gus wasn’t innocent, after all. Maybe nobody was.
“Yeah, I know it, Gus.” McDuff sighed, swallowed. Knew all along he’d never walk him. Just stalling.
“Well, then, kill him, kid! You can do it! It’s the only way!” Gus punctuated his peptalk with stiff jabs to McDuff s ribs. At the plate, Casey, responding to the thunderous ovation, lightly doffed his hat. They were tearing the stands down.
“But all these people, Gus—”
“Don’t let the noise fool ya. It’s the way they want it, kid.”
Casey reached down, bat in his armpit, picked up a handfull of dust, rubbed it on his hands, then wiped his hands on his shirt. Every motion brought on a new burst of enraptured veneration.
McDuff licked his dry lips, ground the baseball into his hip. “Do you really think?”
“Take it from old Gus,” said his catcher gently. “They’re all leanin’ on ya.” Gus clapped him on the shoulder, cast a professional glance over toward third, then jogged splaylegged back to the plate, motioning the man there back to first.
Gus crouched, spat, lowered his mask; Casey swung his bat in short choppy cuts to loosen up; the umpire hovered. McDuff stretched, looked back at Blake on second, Flynn on third. Must be getting dark. Couldn’t see their faces. They stood on the bags like totems. Okay, thought McDuff, I’ll leave it up to Casey. I’m just not gonna sweat it (though in fact he had not stopped sweating, and even now it was cold in his armpits and trickling down his back). What’s another ballgame? Let him take it or leave it. And without further wind-up, he served Casey a nice fat pitch gently down the slot, a little outside to give Casey plenty of room to swing.
Casey ignored it, stepped back out of the box, flicked a gnat off his bat.
“Strike one!" the umpire said.
Bottles and pillows flew and angry voices stirred the troubled air. The masses rose within the shadows of the stands, and maybe they’d have leapt the fences, had not Casey raised his hand. A charitable smile, a tip of the cap, a twirl of the great moustache. For the people, a pacifying gesture with a couple mighty fingers; for the umpire, an apologetic nod. And for McDuff: a strange sly smile and flick of the bat, as though to say . . . everything. McDuff read whole books into it, and knew he wasn’t far from wrong.
This is it, Case, said McDuff to himself. We’re here. And he fingered the rosin bag and wiped the sweat and pretended he gave a damn about the runners on second and third and stretched and lifted his left leg, then came down on it easily and offered Casey the sweetest, fattest, purest pitch he’d ever shown a man. Not even in batting practice had he ever given a hitter more to swing at.
Casey only smiled.
And the umpire said: “Strike two!"
The crowd let loose a terrible wrathful roar, and the umpire cowed as gunfire cracked and whined, and a great darkness rose up and all the faces fell in shadows, and even Gus had lost his smile, nor did he wink at McDuff.
But Casey drew himself up with a mighty intake of breath, turned on the crowd as fierce as a tiger, ordered the umpire to stand like a man, and then even, with the sudden hush that fell, the sun came out again. And Casey’s muscles rippled as he exercised the bat, and Casey’s teeth were clenched as he tugged upon his hat, and Casey’s brows were darkened as he gazed out on McDuff, and now the fun was done because Cascy’d had enough.
McDuff, on the other hand, hadn’t felt better all day. Now that the preliminaries were over, now that he’d done all he could do and it was on him, now that everybody else had got serious, McDuff suddenly found it was all just a gas and he couldn’t give a damn. You’re getting delirious, he cautioned himself, but his caution did no good.
He giggled furtively: there’s always something richly ludicrous about extremity, he decided. He stepped up on the rubber, went right into his stretch. Didn’t bother looking at second and third: irrelevant now. And it was so ironically simple: all he had to do was put it down the middle. With a lot of stuff, of course, but he had the stuff. He nearly laughed out loud. He reared back, kicking high with his left, then hurtled forward, sent the ball humming like a shot right down the middle.
Casey’s mighty cut split the air in two—WHEEEEP!—and when the vacuum filled, there was a terrible thunderclap, and some saw light, and some screamed, and rain fell on the world.
Casey, in the dirt, stared in openjawed wonderment at his bat.
Gus plucked the ball gingerly out of his mitt, fingered it unbelievingly.
Flynn and Blake stood as though forever rooted at third and second, static parts of a final fieldwide tableau.
And forget what Gus said. No one cheered McDuff in Mudville when he struck Casey out.
Rod Serling had already won two Emmy Awards when he turned to science fiction and fantasy with The Twilight Zone, but it is with that show that he is most closely linked and it won him another Emmy. Serling wrote ninety-two scripts for The Twilight Zone, and one of the most famous of those is "The Mighty Casey," which starts with one of the best known names in baseball literature and then inverts it to feature a pitcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers who struggles with his growing sense of humanity. Serling later rewrote the script as a short story and included it in his Stories from the Twilight Zone, and it is that short-story adaptation that is included here.