Purposeful & Reflective – Casey At The Bat
How a Classic Poem, a Black Voice, and a Summer Game Shaped Who I Became In a Reflective Spirit
By Casey Muze
As a kid growing up in East Texas, summer wasn’t just a season.
It was a shift.
The rules changed. Time slowed down.
The energy of the classroom faded into the rhythm of the streets, the smell of grass, the thud of a ball in a mitt.
And in my house, summer had a soundtrack — not just of birds chirping or lawnmowers buzzing — but of a voice.
A voice that carried weight. A voice that stopped time when it filled the room.
It was James Earl Jones, reading Casey at the Bat.
That poem stuck with me. Not because it was a school assignment or a sports story, but because of how it was told — and who told it.
Not Just a Reading, But a Moment
James Earl Jones didn’t simply narrate Casey at the Bat.
He delivered it with such power that it felt like truth.
Like something ancient and personal.
The lines of the poem weren’t just words. They became lessons.
They became possibilities.
“There is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.”
Even that last line — full of disappointment — hit differently when he said it.
Not with shame, but with depth. With humanity.
At the time, I didn’t know that there wasn’t an “official” Black version of Casey at the Bat.
And maybe that’s because I didn’t need it to be official.
The poem was a canvas, and James Earl Jones’ voice was the brush that painted me into the story.
Seeing Myself in the Swing
There was something powerful — and deeply rare — about being able to picture myself as the central figure in a story that wasn’t written for me.
Because let’s be honest: most of the classic literature we were taught in school didn’t include kids who looked like me.
But the way Casey at the Bat was delivered allowed me to claim it.
Not because of how it was illustrated, but because of how it made me feel.
When I closed my eyes, Casey was Black.
He was me.
He had a strong jawline and smooth stride. He wore a uniform with pride. He carried the pressure of a whole town on his back — and he did it with poise.
Even if the story ended in a strikeout, I still admired him.
Because he showed up.
He stood in the box.
He took his swing.
That meant everything to a kid like me — quiet, creative, often on the edges of things. It told me I didn’t have to wait to be chosen. I was already part of the story.
Bringing the Poem to Life on the Field
When I started playing baseball in junior high, I was mostly a catcher. It’s not the flashiest role, but it suited me. I liked reading the game. I liked being the steady one, the voice behind the plate. But I also remember every time I walked up to bat.
And every single time, I carried that story in my head.
The pressure. The silence before the pitch. The crowd watching. My teammates hoping I’d deliver.
I felt what Casey must’ve felt — the weight of expectation, the rush of adrenaline, the fear of letting people down.
But I also knew what he didn’t seem to know: that just being there was enough.
That showing up with your full self — prepared, present, open — was its own kind of victory.
No Official “Black Version” — But a Deep Personal Truth
Let’s be clear: there is no widely recognized or officially published “Black version” of Casey at the Bat.
There’s no adaptation that makes Mudville an all-Black town or explicitly centers Black characters.
But that doesn’t mean there haven’t been powerful reinterpretations.
Some artists have explored the poem through jazz, blues, or hip-hop. Others have written cultural tributes or modern parallels. But none of them were on the shelves when I was growing up.
What I had was the voice.
And what I built was my own version.
And honestly, that’s the heart of it.
Representation doesn’t always have to be handed to you in print.
Sometimes, you find it in a voice.
In a feeling.
In the permission to imagine yourself in a world that hasn’t yet imagined you.
That’s what James Earl Jones gave me.
And that’s why Casey at the Bat will always be my story, even if it was never “officially” written that way.
Passing the Story Forward
Now, as an adult, I work with kids across all walks of life — some who feel invisible in their classrooms, others who have never seen themselves in a leadership role, many who are still learning how to process failure.
And I realize now that part of what I’m doing — in mentoring, in drumming, in speaking — is helping them rewrite their own version of Casey at the Bat.
A version where they are allowed to swing.
Where they are expected to show up.
Where they don’t have to be perfect to be powerful.
Because I’ve seen what it does to a child when they finally see themselves in the story.
I’ve been that child.
What Summer Still Means
So now, when the school year ends and the season shifts, I think about those early days again.
The quiet of the living room.
The weight of that voice.
The feeling of being included — not by name, but by presence.
I think about baseball, yes.
But more than that, I think about permission.
To step into the box.
To carry the moment.
To swing hard, even when you might miss.
Because in the end, Casey at the Bat isn’t just a story about loss.
It’s a story about showing up.
And that’s the message I needed then — and the one I still carry now.
To every kid who’s ever sat in the back wondering if they mattered:
You do.
You are part of the story.
And it’s time to take your swing.
— Casey Muze
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