Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

The election is finally over, and about the only thing I am really happy about is that Ohio didn’t become another Florida. We knew inside 24 hours who the next President of the United States would be, and there will be no contesting the outcome. No injunctions, no courts, no hanging chads.

No joy in Mudville either.

Mudville is the setting for one of my Mother’s favorite poems, “Casey at the Bat” by Ernest L. Thayer. It’s about the ninth inning in a baseball game, when the home team is trailing four to two. With two outs, and two men on base, the last man at bat is Casey, who has been known to field miracles, and the spectators clearly hope he does it now.

Casey gives his all. Tension mounts as the umpire calls the count. Soon it’s three and two. Hearts beat loudly. Voices raise the cry. And the final lines of the poem tell the tale:

“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 little children shout,

but there is no joy in Mudville —
mighty Casey has struck out.”

I feel the same way about the election.