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A monologue from the play by Greg Owens
Casey
He’s standing there on the mound. Grinning at me. Making fun of me with his eyes. I shoot him a grin right back:
“You don’t scare me you little shit.” He goes into his wind-up and hurls one right at me. Catches me square in the chin.
I rush out to the mound, swingin’ my bat at him. He puts his hands up, tryin’ to protect himself. And I let him have it.
WHAM! Right on the head. (CASEY pantomimes smashing the players’ heads with his bat as he names them.)
The catcher runs up. WHAM! The infield rushes the mound. And I let ‘em have it. WHAM! Second baseman.
WHAM! Third base. WHAM! Shortstop. WHAM! First baseman. The outfield! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! (beat)
I dropped ‘em all. (pause) I look down and my old Louisville Slugger’s covered with blood. It’s running down onto my hands.
I look down at the field and it’s soaked with blood and brains. All kinds of brain junk leaking out of their skulls.
I’m standin’ in it, ankle deep. (beat) And the fans are goin’ nuts. They’re laughin’ and clappin’ and cheerin’. “Hooray!
Hooray!” I look down at all of ‘em. I spit a wad of chew right in the pitcher’s eye. Nobody brushes back the Mighty Casey.
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