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Jack Casey

Jack Casey


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Jack Casey was born in Liverpool. A school teacher, he played as an amateur for Bromley between 1908-1911. During this period the team won the Spartan League, the Isthmian League (twice) and the FA Amateur Cup.

An outside-left, Jack Casey joined West Ham United and made his debut against Gillingham on 2nd November 1912. West Ham began a good run of form in January 1913 and a team that included Casey, George Hilsdon, Dan Bailey, Fred Harrison, George Butcher, Herbert Ashton and Albert Denyer, went through the rest of the season unbeaten. This included 7 games won and 8 games drawn. Casey ended up the season with 3 goals in 24 games. However, he was never a great goalscorer and only got 2 goals in 19 games.

The First World War brought an end to his career and he became a schoolmaster in West Ham.


Jack Cassidy’s Wiki: How Did Jack Cassidy Die? Facts about David Cassidy’s Father

After the news of the death of singer-actor David Cassidy has spread across the nation, people are curious to know more about his family, especially about David Cassidy’s father, Jack Cassidy. Jack Cassidy died unnaturally almost four decades ago at the relatively young age of 49.

Cassidy was an American singer and actor of stage, film, and television, who gave America a family of singers and actors who continue to contribute to the arts even today. Learn all about his life and career here.


Marilynne Robinson’s Essential American Stories

The author of “Housekeeping,” “Gilead,” and, now, “Jack” looks to history not just for the origins of America’s ailments but for their remedy, too.

It is the only one left. A hundred years ago, Robert Frost bought a ninety-acre farm near South Shaftsbury, Vermont it came with an old stone house and a pair of barns, but he also wanted an orchard, so he planted hundreds of apple trees. Time and wind and winter storms have had their way with them, and today only one remains.

Earlier this summer, Marilynne Robinson followed a path through the fallow field that used to be Frost’s orchard, then looked for a long time at the last of his plantings. She does not generally like visiting the houses of writers gone from this world. “They feel like mausoleums,” she says. “I prefer to think of my favorite writers off somewhere writing.” Because of the pandemic, though, it had been months since she had left her summer house, by a lake in Saratoga Springs, so she was open to an adventure. She ambled around the farmhouse and its grounds, looking at Frost’s books and through his windows, studying his barns, recalling her grandfather’s flower gardens while photographing the poet’s, and admiring a bronze statue of Frost before posing obligingly beside it.

But it was the apple tree that seemed particularly charged in Robinson’s presence. More trunk than tree, barren except for a single branch with a few withered attempts at fruit, its shadow was barely longer than hers. As a writer, Robinson is a direct descendant of Frost, carrying on his tradition of careful, democratic observations of this country’s landscapes and its people, perpetually keeping one eye on the eternal and the other on the everyday. As a Calvinist, she has spent a lot of her life thinking about apple trees.

This one seemed very far from Eden, but Robinson is accustomed to tending gardens that others have forsaken. She has devoted her life to reconsidering figures whom history has seen fit to forget or malign, and recovering ideas long misinterpreted or neglected. Her writing is best understood as a grand project of restoration, aesthetic as well as political, which she has undertaken in the past four decades in six works of nonfiction and five novels, including a new one this fall. “Jack” is the fourth novel in Robinson’s Gilead series, an intergenerational saga of race, religion, family, and forgiveness centered on a small Iowa town. But it is not accurate to call it a sequel or a prequel. Rather, this book and the others—“Gilead,” “Home,” and “Lila”—are more like the Gospels, telling the same story four different ways.

Although Robinson began her career by writing a book she believed was unpublishable, and has persisted in writing books she believes are unfashionable, she has earned the Pulitzer Prize and the National Humanities Medal, the praise of Presidents and archbishops, and an audience as devoted to her work as mystics are to visions. At seventy-six, she is still trying to convince the rest of us that her habit of looking backward isn’t retrograde but radical, and that this country’s history, so often seen now as the source of our discontents, contains their remedy, too.

Last fall, at the end of a day spent working on “Jack,” Robinson sat down for an improvised dinner at her home in Iowa City, where she has lived for three decades and where she taught at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop until she retired, four years ago. She considered the day a success because she had perfected a single sentence. “I feel that everything has to be structurally integral, and that, if I write even one sentence that does not feel right, it’s a flawed structure,” she says. Robinson has converted her dining room into something like a rare-books library, its long table covered in enormous seventeenth-century volumes of John Foxe’s “Actes and Monuments,” and the cushions and blankets that protect them, so she had arranged small dishes of crackers and cheese and assorted tarts in the kitchen. The result seemed like something out of a Louisa May Alcott novel, she observed. Then she clarified that it actually was out of an Alcott novel—“An Old-Fashioned Girl,” which features an unconventional meal in a sculptor’s studio, a scene Robinson has always cherished for its depiction of the freedom of the artistic life.

Robinson read Alcott as a child, the way many American girls do she also read “Moby-Dick,” at age nine. Born during the Second World War, she was brought up in the Idaho Panhandle, where her family had lived for four generations. Just about the only thing that wasn’t rationed at the time was books, and Melville’s unruly opus was one of her favorites: an endless font for the vocabulary lists she liked to compile, and a metaphysical primer for making sense of the world. When she wrote her first novel, decades later, her nickname for the manuscript was “Moby-Jane,” and the conversation between it and Melville is obvious from the opening sentence: “My name is Ruth.”

That book’s actual title is “Housekeeping,” which, Robinson points out, might just as easily have been the title of Thoreau’s “Walden,” another influence. Like “Walden,” “Housekeeping” is concerned with how the self stands in relation to society. Ruth and her younger sister, Lucille, have been abandoned by their mother and left at their family’s homestead, where they are raised by a series of female relatives—first their grandmother, then two great-aunts, and finally their mother’s eccentric sister, Sylvie. Lucille follows the path of respectability, apprenticing herself to her home-economics teacher, while Ruth ventures farther and farther into the wilderness around and within her.

“Figured out who should bat cleanup yet, Skipper?”

What Melville did with a whaling ship and an ocean, Robinson does with a family home and a lake. “We both drowned a lot of people,” she says, laughing. With her serene gravitas, Robinson can seem somewhat like a benevolent mountain, but her sense of humor is quick and abundant. “Housekeeping” is an epic made from the domestic, a depiction of childhood that takes seriously the strangeness of being a sentient creature in the world. Robinson shared the novel with a writer friend, who found it remarkable and sent it along to his agent, Ellen Levine. Levine read the manuscript on a dreary day at a dreary hotel while accompanying her husband to a medical conference and found that it changed the weather. “It was just transporting,” she says. “The language and the feeling of it was haunting and beautiful.” She has represented Robinson for more than forty years.

As much as she loved the book, Levine warned Robinson that she was not sure anyone would publish it when Farrar, Straus & Giroux decided to do so, the publisher warned them that it might attract very little in the way of readers or reviews. Robinson’s editor thought some revisions might help, but she agreed to only two changes: striking a passage about a lumberyard deemed too lyrical, and changing a dog’s name from Hitler to Brutus. When “Housekeeping” came out, in 1981, Doris Lessing declared that “every sentence is a delight” and Walker Percy called its prose “as sharp and clear as light and air and water.” Anatole Broyard, in his review for the Times, wrote, “Here’s a first novel that sounds as if the author has been treasuring it up all her life, waiting for it to form itself. It’s as if, in writing it, she broke through the ordinary human condition with all its dissatisfactions, and achieved a kind of transfiguration.”

Broyard was right about the patience that had gone into the book’s composition. Robinson had been gathering ideas and metaphors for her novel for more than a dozen years, collecting them on loose-leaf paper and in spiral notebooks that she squirrelled away in the drawer of a sideboard. “Housekeeping” is not autobiographical, but writing it required summoning her Western roots, calling forth a place where she had not lived in nearly two decades. “I would close the shutters,” she says, “and sit in this very dark room and try to remember.”

Robinson is once again sitting in darkness recalling her childhood the windows in her kitchen have long since gone black, but she has not yet turned on a light. “I’m a sort of twilight person,” she says, getting up to make coffee before settling back into conversation. She spent much of her childhood in the town of Sandpoint, in the shadow of the Bitterroot, Cabinet, and Selkirk Mountains, on the banks of Lake Pend Oreille, where her uncle drowned in a sailing accident before she was born. In “Housekeeping,” that lake appears as Fingerbone, which has claimed the girls’ mother in a suicide and their grandfather in one of literature’s most memorable train wrecks: “The disaster took place midway through a moonless night. The train, which was black and sleek and elegant, and was called the Fireball, had pulled more than halfway across the bridge when the engine nosed over toward the lake and then the rest of the train slid after it into the water like a weasel sliding off a rock.”

The tallest building in Sandpoint was a grain elevator, and, historically, the half of Robinson’s family who weren’t ranchers were farmers. Her father, John, worked in the lumber industry, first as a logger—Robinson remembers him smelling of pitch and sawdust—then as a field representative, moving his family all around Idaho, and briefly to the East Coast, before settling in Coeur d’Alene, where Robinson graduated from high school. Her mother, Ellen, was a formal and exacting homemaker. Robinson’s brother, David, two years older, decided early that he was going to become a painter and declared that she should be a poet. He told her once that God is a sphere whose center is everywhere but whose circumference is nowhere, a sentence she never forgot, partly because it reflected her own experience of holiness and partly because it demonstrated something of increasing interest to her: how to capture the ineffable in language.

Robinson was a pious child, but her parents, who were Presbyterians, did not go to church often. What services she did attend she mostly spent pushing the coins for her offering into the tips of her white gloves to give herself toad fingers. But she recalls feeling God’s presence everywhere: in the pooled creeks where tender new trees rose up from drowned logs in the curious basalt columns that seemed like ancient temples and in the lake, nearly fifty miles long and almost twelve hundred feet deep, cold and dark, like mystery itself. The Idaho of her childhood was a strikingly quiet place, its people reticent, its landscapes romantic beauty was a given no matter which direction you looked.

When Robinson was not quite twelve, she and her family were in an automobile accident. Another driver crossed the center line, totalling their car, injuring both of her parents, breaking her brother’s leg, and leaving her with a concussion. All four of them were hospitalized. The crash was so traumatic that Robinson does not drive, creating a rare dependency in someone who is otherwise almost entirely self-sufficient. Already in childhood she was comfortable with solitude, even with loneliness her needs, including her need for other people, were remarkably limited. One of Robinson’s schoolteachers told her that “one must make one’s mind a good companion, because you live with it every minute of your life,” advice that she either took to heart or never required.

At eighteen, Robinson followed David, a senior at Brown, to Rhode Island, enrolling at the university’s sister school, Pembroke College. It was the early sixties, and she found herself ideologically adrift: too serious-minded for the countercultures embraced by some of her peers, and unmoved by the Freudian theories espoused by some of her professors and the behavioralism advanced by others. She and David took long, meandering walks around Providence, undeterred by rain or snow, ruining their hats and shoes, discussing aesthetics and ethics. When David graduated, he went to Yale for a doctorate in art history, and, once Robinson had mastered the train schedule, they continued their walks in New Haven.

Robinson still likes to walk while thinking and talking. One day, strolling through the stately oak savanna of Rochester Cemetery, in one of Iowa’s last remaining patches of native prairie, she narrates the ecology of the area and some of its human history, pointing out the generations of headstones hidden among a tiny sea of hills. She is formidably erudite but punctuates her speech with the surprisingly sweet refrain “you know?” The answer is almost always no—no, we do not know much about the Albigensians or the Waldensians, have nothing to say about the migratory habits of pelicans, had no idea that the first English translator of Philipp Melanchthon’s systematics was an African-American philosopher named Charles Leander Hill, have not read Marlowe’s translations of Ovid, have read the first volume of Calvin’s “Institutes” but, alas, not all of the second. But “you know?” is less a question than an assurance, part of why Robinson was a beloved teacher: there is a lot we do not already know, but no limit to what we could learn, and no reason to underestimate one another.

In other ways, too, Robinson is a patient guide. A stop in Stone City, named for the area’s many limestone quarries, near where Grant Wood painted, is followed by one at Anamosa State Penitentiary, which prisoners built from the limestone, and where Robinson recounts her own experiences teaching and meeting with the incarcerated. Next is a visit to the Herbert Hoover National Historic Site, where, before entering, she lingers in the parking lot to discuss the miracles in the Synoptic Gospels, and, upon exiting, returns to the same topic, which leads her to a distinction she draws between the religious imaginations of Gerard Manley Hopkins and Emily Dickinson.

Robinson’s own religious imagination took shape during her sophomore year of college, when a philosophy professor assigned Jonathan Edwards’s “The Great Christian Doctrine of Original Sin Defended.” The treatise contains a footnote that changed her life in it, Edwards observes that although moonlight seems permanent, its brightness is renewed continuously. Believers often say that God meets them where they are and speaks to them in voices they can understand, so perhaps it is fitting that Robinson found her own revelation in a seldom read yet much maligned two-hundred-year-old book. An eighteenth-century evangelist articulated what she had always felt: that existence is miraculous, that at any moment the luminousness of the world could be revoked but is instead sustained.

Another truth revealed itself in that encounter: that history is not always a fair judge of character. Edwards had been reduced in the popular imagination to the censorious preacher of a single sermon, but the man who once called us “sinners in the hands of an angry God” spent a lifetime pointing out that we are creatures in the embrace of a tender and generous one, too. Likewise, Robinson came to see Edwards’s fellow-Puritans not as finger-wagging prudes but as radical political reformers who preached, even if they did not always live up to, a social ethic with strict expectations around charity—a tradition of Christian liberalism and economic justice rarely acknowledged today.

Robinson thought about going into the ministry, but when she did not get a scholarship for seminary she returned to the West, for graduate studies in English at the University of Washington, where she wrote a dissertation on “Henry VI, Part II.” (Characteristically, she was drawn to one of Shakespeare’s least-known and least-loved plays.) While there, Robinson married another student, whom she met in a seminar on the literature of the American South, and their first son was born not long afterward. When her husband got a job as a professor at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, in 1970, the family moved from Seattle to the Pioneer Valley, where their second son was born. The marriage ended two decades later she does not speak of the divorce, or of the man to whom she was married. But she loves to talk about motherhood and her children, and she describes bringing them up as the most sustained act of attention she could imagine. “When you watch a child grow, it is pure consciousness coming into being,” she says. “It’s beautiful, complex, and inexhaustible. You learn so much about the mind, how language develops and memory works.”

Robinson says that she “aspired to mythic status as a mother,” although the mothers of mythology are a mixed bunch, and her own mother was a source of some consternation. Both of her parents were very conservative, and the gap between their politics and hers grew over time. Robinson’s relationship with her mother was interesting, but not easy. Her mother prized respectability above all, and for a while Robinson seemed to strive for that standard. She recalls winter mornings in Massachusetts when she got up early to bake, so that the house smelled of fresh bread when the boys awoke, and summer afternoons when they gathered gooseberries from the back yard to make pies, and hours spent tending the flower gardens that adorned their white clapboard house on a maple-shaded road. But Robinson had an outlet for her ambition that her mother never did: around the edges of all that domestic activity, she was turning herself into a novelist.

“Someday, son, all this will be dust, swept from the earth by disaster, or by war, or simply the cruel passage of time itself, forgotten by history as another puny and futile effort of man. But, yes, before that I suppose it will be yours.”

“I don’t ever remember her writing,” Robinson’s younger son, Joseph, says, “but I do remember playing with my brother a lot, so it must have been happening then, while we played, or maybe while we slept. It was this other life she had, because when we were children, and she was home with us, she interacted with us all the time—down on the floor with us, in the yard with us. Whatever she is doing, my mother is not distracted.”

Robinson felt that she and her brother grew close because of the isolation of their childhood wanting the same for her own children, she took them to Brittany for a year, in 1978, while she and her husband taught at the Université de Haute Bretagne. “We were the only Americans—it was really something,” her older son, James, recalled. “We went to this rural school, and people made such a big deal about us.” Because of a higher-education strike, Robinson had plenty of time to work on “Housekeeping.” “I was probably the only person in France thinking of Idaho,” she says.

The experiment abroad was so successful that the family did it again in 1983, when both parents taught at the University of Kent. By then, “Housekeeping” had been out in the world for two years another twenty-one would pass before Robinson published her second novel. But she never stopped writing, and it was while living in Canterbury that she found the subject for her next book—an exposé inspired by daily news coverage of nuclear pollution from a plant on the northwest coast of England called Sellafield.

“It’s my most important book,” Robinson says of “Mother Country: Britain, the Welfare State and Nuclear Pollution.” “If I had to choose, and I could only publish one book, ‘Mother Country’ would be it.” This is a surprising preference, since many of Robinson’s readers have never heard of it. “I was clipping these articles, reading about plutonium and cancer rates,” Robinson recalls. “Everyone seemed to know what was going on, but no one seemed to be doing anything about it. So when we came back to America I didn’t even really unpack, I just started writing about it.”

Although her journalism up to that point included little more than a few columns and a profile of John Cheever for her college newspaper, Robinson quickly wrote a magazine article, which Levine placed with Harper’s in early 1985. Farrar, Straus & Giroux then commissioned a book on the subject, in which Robinson drastically scaled up her argument. The latter half of “Mother Country” is an expansion of the article, an account of the nuclear program at Sellafield and its literal and figurative fallout—including an indictment of environmental activists with Greenpeace UK and Friends of the Earth, who Robinson felt were complicit in covering up the extent of the catastrophe. The first half is something else entirely: a thoroughgoing and thoroughly scathing political and social history of modern England.

As Robinson saw it, the roots of the Sellafield crisis lay in failures of political economy and moral reasoning which went back to the sixteenth century and the beginnings of the Poor Laws. While the developed world grandstanded about the superiority of its scientists and its social order, she alleged, one of its leading nations was poisoning its own people for profit. “My attack will seem ill-tempered and eccentric, a veering toward anarchy, the unsettling emergence of lady novelist as petroleuse,” she wrote. “I am angry to the depths of my soul that the earth has been so injured.”

The reviews were mixed. Some critics challenged her conclusions and the facts on which she had based them, while others seemed affronted that an American would presume to criticize the nuclear program of any other country and by the claim that Britain’s political foundations were so compromised. Although the book was a finalist for the National Book Award in the United States, Greenpeace UK sued Robinson for libel, and, when she refused to remove the passages in question, the book was banned in Britain.

For Robinson, the book’s reception was evidence of the very cultural hubris she had diagnosed, and only confirmed her sense that the economic interests of the ruling few routinely inflict tragedy on everyone else, with nuclear pollution being simply the most recent and potentially most disastrous iteration. The state had failed its citizens, advocacy groups had failed the public, and an entire civilization had cosseted itself in a deluded sense of its own rectitude. Only the individual conscience could be trusted, she concluded, and moral courage would often place individuals at odds with society.

So far, at least, “Mother Country” has not joined the ranks of “Silent Spring” or “The Other America.” But, if the book did not change the world, it did change the course of Robinson’s career. After its publication, she began writing long, tendentious essays about the things she thought were worth thinking about: “Puritans and Prigs,” “Decline,” “Slander,” “The Tyranny of Petty Coercion.” Robinson has published five essay collections, four of them in the past ten years. Like “Mother Country,” the essays bear a trace of the high-school debater who could leave other students trembling: Robinson does not suffer fools, or foes, or sometimes, it must be said, friends. Even those who admire her can leave an argument feeling a little singed.

“Mother Country” also helped determine the future of Robinson’s fiction. After the Sellafield lawsuit, she sought solace in historical examples of people whose moral clarity was disregarded by their contemporaries. She read about Dietrich Bonhoeffer and the Confessing Church in Nazi Germany, then turned her attention to the life and work of abolitionists in the United States. The year after “Mother Country” was published, Robinson accepted the job in Iowa, and, once in the Midwest, began exploring a constellation of colleges those abolitionists had built, among them Grinnell, Oberlin, Carleton, and Knox. Many of these institutions were integrated by race or gender or both—an egalitarianism so radical that a century later it took federal courts and the National Guard to enforce it elsewhere—and Robinson wondered what had happened to the visionary impulses behind them. The Second Great Awakening began as a broad movement for social and moral reform and spread across the entire frontier, only to be snuffed out after a single generation and misremembered today as nothing but an outburst of cultish religious enthusiasm.

What puzzled Robinson was not the moral clarity of the abolitionists but how the communities they established could so quickly abandon their ideological origins. This was Jonathan Edwards all over again: historical figures, flawed because they are human but full of promise for the same reason, who are maligned, underestimated, or forgotten. We often say that those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it, but that suggests that all we can learn from history is its errors and its failures. Robinson believes this to be a dangerously incomplete understanding, one that distorts our sense of the present and limits the possibilities of the future by overstating our own wisdom and overlooking the visionaries of earlier generations. “It is important to be serious and accurate about history,” she says. “It seems to me much of what is said today is shallow and empty and false. I believe in the origins of things, reading primary texts themselves—reading the things many people pretend to have read, or don’t even think need to be read because we all supposedly know what they say.”

This conviction was evident in Robinson’s seminars at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and remains so today in her lectures around the world. She has assigned Calvin and Edwards when teaching Melville, read all of Sidney in order to talk about Shakespeare’s sonnets, and constructed her critiques of modern scientism from close readings of Darwin, Nietzsche, and Freud. She pursues the same project at her Congregational church, where she advocates for the reading of texts like John Winthrop’s “A Model of Christian Charity” while also calling for more outreach to immigrants and multilingual carols for children.

Robinson has been a member of her church for almost as long as she’s lived in Iowa. She can regularly be found arranging the flowers in the sanctuary, socializing during coffee hour, and bowing her head during the Prayers of the People. Occasionally, she has preached exegetically rich sermons on, among other things, economics, scriptural language, and grace. Those sermons are sometimes disarmingly personal. “I have never been much good at the things most people do,” she confesses in one of them, before describing the single day she spent as a waitress—a spectacular failure, in which she spilled soup on a customer and was banished to the kitchen, where an older waitress, taking pity on her, tried to give her that day’s tips. Robinson likens the waitress’s offer to the widow’s mite, in the Gospels: “a gift made freely, in contempt of circumstance.” Yet she felt that she could not accept it, and struggles still with the question of whether she should have done so. She credits the waitress with teaching her that generosity is “a casting off of the constraints of prudence and self-interest.” In that respect, she notes, it “is so like an art that I think it may actually be the impulse behind art.”

Robinson is a gifted preacher, and when, after two decades, she finally started writing another novel, it was because she had begun to hear the voice of a Congregationalist minister. He was an old man, and she sensed that he was writing something at his desk while a young child played at his feet. This turned out to be the Reverend John Ames, drafting a letter to his son, a miracle from a late-in-life marriage—so late that he fears his heart condition will kill him before he can teach the boy so much as the Ten Commandments or their family’s history. “It came easily, like he was telling me the story, and all I had to do was listen,” she recalls, pointing to a grassy bank beside the Iowa River not far from her old office, where, eighteen months after she first heard the reverend’s voice, the novel’s final pages came together. A plain patch of riverbank, near one of the university’s footbridges, it is akin to many of the places Robinson conjures in her work: simple, yet rendered beautiful by our attention. “I don’t mean that I was ever seized, or that what I experienced was a vision,” she says, “but I felt engaged by the character—his voice, his mind. I liked listening to him. He was such good company that I missed him when I had finished writing.”

That book, “Gilead,” which was published in 2004, definitively established Robinson as one of the world’s greatest living novelists. Her nonfiction had taken on the thunderous tones of a prophet, but in her fiction she found the range of the psalmist, sometimes gentle, sometimes wild, and always full of empathy and wonder. “I have a bicameral mind,” she says, explaining that her lectures and essays are a way of “aerating” ideas that often originate in agitation or outrage, whereas the novels are a different exercise entirely. The essays are the most explicit expression of her ideas, the novels the most elegant. “With any piece of fiction, any work of literature, the assumption is that a human life matters,” Robinson says. For her, this is a theological commitment, a reflection of her belief in the Imago Dei: the value of each of us, inclusive of our faults. “That is why I love my characters. I can only write about characters I love.”

“Gilead” is sometimes mistaken for nothing more than a plainspoken novel about good-hearted religious people in a small Midwestern town. But, in reality, it is the morally demanding result of Robinson’s encounter with the abolitionists. She modelled the eponymous town of Gilead on the real town of Tabor, Iowa, which was founded by clergymen who created a college and maintained a stop on the Underground Railroad. The narrator’s grandfather, also a Reverend John Ames, was a radical abolitionist who went west to the Kansas Territory from Maine in the decades before the Civil War. At the time, that territory was the site of violent clashes between Border Ruffians, who wanted slavery to be legal there after statehood, and Free-Staters, who wanted to outlaw it somewhere between fifty and two hundred people died in the conflict, which became known as Bleeding Kansas. After his stint there, the first John Ames settled in Iowa, where he preached with a pistol in his belt, wore shirts bloodied from battle, gave John Brown sanctuary in his church, and served as a chaplain in the Union Army. His son, the second Reverend John Ames, was a pacifist who rejected his father’s zealotry, recoiling from the violence of the First World War and quarrelling with his father over Christian ethics.


Jack Casey No team videos, transfer history and stats - SofaScore

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Jack Casey's Four Mile House reaches the end of the line

Support the independent voice of Denver and help keep the future of Westword free.

Jack Casey's Four Mile House, a Glendale fixture for decades, has closed. The bar, which won Westword's 2003 Best of Denver award for Best Happy Hour for Absolutely Free Food, started life as a barn, back in the days when what's now Glendale was filled with dairy farms dedicated to quenching Denver's thirst for more wholesome beverages. But by the time Jack Casey bought the place in the '60s, it was already a venerable tavern.

When we stopped in last summer, though, it was clear the place had gone downhill.

"About time," said one commenter when Backbeat broke the news of the closure last week, after Glendale had revoked the bar's liquor license after a series of violations.

"In recent history it has been nothing short of a disaster," said another.

It's a sad end to the town's oldest saloon -- which is not to be confused with Four Mile House, a Denver park located in Glendale, which was once a stagecoach stop four miles southeast of the original Denver.

What else has closed this month? Watch Cafe Society for our Restaurant Roll Call for July on August 1.

Keep Westword Free. Since we started Westword, it has been defined as the free, independent voice of Denver, and we would like to keep it that way. Offering our readers free access to incisive coverage of local news, food and culture. Producing stories on everything from political scandals to the hottest new bands, with gutsy reporting, stylish writing, and staffers who've won everything from the Society of Professional Journalists' Sigma Delta Chi feature-writing award to the Casey Medal for Meritorious Journalism. But with local journalism's existence under siege and advertising revenue setbacks having a larger impact, it is important now more than ever for us to rally support behind funding our local journalism. You can help by participating in our "I Support" membership program, allowing us to keep covering Denver with no paywalls.


The real story of Casey Johnson’s short scandalous life

Now, Casey’s turbulent world is ex-amined in JERRY OPPENHEIMER’S new bombshell unauthorized biography, “Crazy Rich: Power, Scandal, and Tragedy Inside the Johnson & Johnson Dynasty.” Casey’s socialite mother, Sale Johnson, along with relatives and friends, spoke candidly for the first time since her death. Now, in an exclusive excerpt, Oppenheimer paints an astonishing picture of the doomed heiress and the role her mother and father played in their daughter’s life and tragic end . . .

Two years after this 2004 picture, Woody Johnson cut off all contact with his troubled daughter Casey. (Patrick McMullan)

Sale Johnson (left) with daughter Casey. (Djamilla Rosa Cochran/WireImage)

Casey, with her adopted daughter Ava-Monroe, in 2007. (Rob Rich/Everett Collection)

Shortly before her death in 2010, Casey carried on with reality star Tila Tequila. (Michael Buckner/WireImage)

Casey Johnson (CLINT SPAULDING/PatrickMcMullan.com)

Ten-year-old girls fantasized about fashion with their Ken and Barbie dolls, but when Casey Johnson was that age she dressed up for real with her first, but not her last, Chanel bag. At 11, she donned a pair of snakeskin pumps. Even though she didn’t have a driver’s license, Casey was given her own car at 16. At 18, she got breast implants. “I got whatever I wanted,” she once boasted.

“Woody over-indulged Casey,” a family member asserts. “That was Woody’s way. He was raised with the idea that money can do everything, and that’s what worked for him.”

When Casey was 9 years old, she became increasingly volatile and disruptive. One of several psychiatrists who Casey saw throughout her life became a father figure because, according to her mother, Woody could not relate to his wayward child.

Her mother asserts, “Woody was not a warm, cuddly kind of person. With Casey, Woody was so uncomfortable because he didn’t know what to do with her, or how to react to her situation because she was not easy to deal with. She was very complicated, and it was overwhelming in a large part for Woody despite his best efforts.” Adds Johnson: “All Casey wanted was her father’s approval. She lived for that, and she was broken down because she didn’t get it.”

Casey was diagnosed with diabetes in 1988 at the age of 8, but her growing disruptiveness at home and school was not related, as first assumed, to her physical condition.

In adolescence, it was determined that she had borderline personality disorder — a serious mental illness marked by unstable moods, behavior, and relationships — symptoms that grew increasingly severe in the last years of her life. “Borderline personality disorder ruled Casey’s life,” declares Sale Johnson, revealing her daughter’s mental condition for the first time. “It stole her teenage years and her young adulthood life away from her. It’s a mental health disease that confounds, scares, hurts the victim, her family, her friends, and her doctors. They don’t want to treat it because it has the highest suicide rate, and no cure, and [someone like Casey] is a 24/7 patient.”

As Casey got older, gossip about the pretty heiress’s aimless lifestyle and extravagant ways spread across New York. As usual, Daddy was there to clean up the mess with his wallet.

Casey loved dogs since childhood, and considered them her “babies,” but they would make incredible and costly messes, including even in her $12,000 Hermès Birkin bag, where she carried a teacup pooch everywhere. In the fall of 2005, she was staying in a luxurious suite at the Plaza Athénée in Manhattan, when her Chihuahua, Tukus, had the runs, and defecated everywhere. Woody was forced to foot the clean-up bill, said to be as much as $20,000.

Throughout her teens and 20s, hard-partying Casey drank and, according to her mother, did recreational drugs to ease her emotional pain. She lasted just one semester at Brown University, and constantly neglected her health. In 2001, the year her parents divorced, she moved to Hollywood.

Initially, she had a fantasy about a show business career (she’d taken singing lessons since she was 12), but mainly she just wanted to get away from her family. That was underscored by a story she once told about attending a Hollywood party where she overheard one girl telling another, “ ‘Oh, that’s the Johnson and Johnson girl,’ and my heart just sank because I don’t want to be identified like that. I’m Casey Johnson. I’m not the Johnson and Johnson girl. It really hurt.” Like so many members of the Johnson dynasty before her, she was wary of people, and felt some took advantage of her because of her name and wealth. “I’ve learned that the hard way. I’ve found a lot of people use me . . . I just let things happen, and then I find out, ‘Oh, my God, they’re totally taking advantage of me.’ ”

In 2005, her parents traveled to LA to stage the first of a series of interventions to persuade the increasingly emotionally disturbed Casey to enter rehab.

“We got there,” reveals Sale Johnson, “and Casey just blew us off. She said, ‘I don’t need any help. I’m sorry you wasted a trip.’ After that, Woody basically washed his hands of Casey.”

In March 2006, Casey, then 26, very publicly fell out with her five-times married aunt, Woody’s sister, Elizabeth Ross “Libet” Johnson, then 56, and excoriated her in the press, accusing her of stealing a boyfriend. The Johnson clan was mortified by the media coverage.

To the very private Woody Johnson and the Johnson dynasty as a whole, Casey was now considered a tabloid terrorist and her act of vengeance their own personal 9/11. Woody, who had mostly washed his hands of Casey because of how troublesome she was, cut off all ties with her, including her trust fund millions in a move of tough-love.

Meanwhile, Casey fell in love with the idea of adopting a baby.

“I told her I was totally against the adoption,” her mother emphatically maintains. “I said, ‘You don’t have your own life together, how are you going to keep track of somebody else’s life? This is not a puppy that if it doesn’t work out, you can give it to a friend.’ ” Casey had never planned to have a child of her own, Sale Johnson says, because she was aware, when lucid, of her mental instability from borderline personality disorder and poor health as a result of her diabetes. But in 2007, against her divorced parents’ wishes, Casey adopted a Kazakh baby girl and named her Ava-Monroe, in honor of her idol Marilyn Monroe.

The following year, a hysterical and hurtful family confrontation was ignited involving Casey, Woody and his much younger future second wife, Suzanne Ircha, at the Jets owner’s Hamptons estate.

During one of her up periods, Casey had come east with hopes of introducing her father to Ava-Monroe, and ending their long estrangement. By the time Casey showed up on her father’s doorstep with two-year-old Ava in tow, Woody had been incommunicado for several years. Woody wasn’t home, but Ircha came to the door. Casey let everyone know her father’s girlfriend was far from hospitable. “What are you doing here?” Ircha fumed, Casey later told her mother.

When Casey explained that she had come to see her father, Ircha was said to have replied, “This is my house, so leave.” But Casey stood her ground. “This is my father’s house and I’m staying here until he gets here because I want him to meet my daughter.”

Words flew, and Ircha dialed 911. About the same time that the police arrived, Woody pulled up, and demanded that his daughter get off of his property, stay off, and never come back. [Woody Johnson declined to be interviewed for Oppenheimer’s book.]

“Woody doesn’t like confrontation. He doesn’t like negative publicity. He doesn’t like anything like that,” maintains his ex-wife, Sale, of the incident. A close relative recalls a conversation with Casey not long after the contretemps. “I said, ‘Well, how are things,’ and she said, ‘My fondest wish, my dearest wish, is that I can someday be on good terms and talk with my father again.’ I was shocked. I said, ‘Casey, what are you telling me?’ And she says, ‘He won’t have anything to do with me. If I go to his house he tells me to get off his property.’ It was really heart-wrenching.”

In the last couple years of Casey’s life, her mother claims, “Casey sent love letters to her father. She called and left voice mails, and Woody chose not to respond.”

In June 2009, six months before her death, relations soured between Casey and her mother, who was desperately fighting to get her into treatment for her mental disorder.

While Casey was scheduled to be hospitalized that day at the luxurious Cliffside Malibu clinic, her mother planned to take three-year-old Ava back to New York, and care for her while Casey was in treatment, but she had promised to bring her back for visits. None of it happened the way Johnson envisioned. Before the day had ended, Casey had thrown her mother out into the street, luggage and all, and called the police claiming she was trespassing and attempting to take her baby. “Casey knew in her heart that she couldn’t take care of Ava, but she couldn’t ego-wise and illness-wise say: ‘I know I can’t take care of her like she needs to be cared for …’ ” says Johnson, recalling that awful day.

During that horrific time, Sale Johnson felt bitter about her ex-husband’s lack of involvement with his daughter.

“He didn’t want to have anything to do with Casey,” she says. “It was too much trouble. But fathers are supposed to take a bullet for their kids, and he went the other way. I can’t defend his behavior for that because I thought it was appalling. But that’s who he is. He doesn’t have the emotional makeup to deal with it. It’s like: ‘I’ll be an ostrich and put my head in the sand, and when I pull it out, everything will be good.’ ”

After Casey died, Woody told a reporter that his long-estranged daughter had been “trying to find her own identity. She was rebellious. She made some judgment errors. Been there, done that. She had to take responsibility. And it couldn’t be me pushing. Or her mother. Or her doctor. She would ultimately have to do it herself.”

Her mother eventually persuaded Casey to temporarily entrust her with Ava’s care while she was hospitalized for her diabetes in August 2009.

The visit was believed to be the last time that she saw her daughter alive. Meanwhile, released from the hospital, Casey moved back into her rented Beverly Hills home. But by the fall of 2009, her family, still practicing tough love, had stopped paying Casey’s rent. With her money cut off, Casey was getting deeper into debt. Her Porsche was repossessed, a former landlord sued her for back rent and property damage, and other bills for her extravagances piled up. Facing eviction, Casey found new lodging in the luxurious, gated, and private two-bedroom West Hollywood guest house owned by one of her mother’s friends. It was her final stop.

In the last weeks of December 2009, in one of her more outlandish, headline-making episodes, Casey made public a bizarre romance with the bisexual reality TV personality and exhibitionist Tila Tequila, the two kissing for the paparazzi.

Tequila boasted that they were going to get married, and that Casey had given her a rock of an engagement ring. She called Casey her “Wifey.” Back east her father and other members of the Johnson dynasty cringed.

That Christmas and New Year’s, after a bizarre incident in which she was arrested for the alleged burglary of a friend’s apartment and with Tequila out of town, emotionally fragile Casey stayed alone in the guesthouse.

She had all but stopped taking her insulin, she was eating junk food, and swigging NyQuil in order to sleep. She also had started communicating via Twitter and Facebook with her friends and those in the outside world who were following her increasingly sordid real-life soap opera that was being played out in the tabloids and on-line. Her final one said, “Sweet dreams everyone . . . I’m getting a new car . . . Any ideas? Cant be a two seater cause we have a daughter . . . sedan, sports car, suv??”

From what was known, she spent New Year’s Eve, when she usually was out partying, alone in bed. Around 11:30am on January 4, 2010, when Casey didn’t respond to knocks on her door, she was found unconscious. Shortly before noon, Pacific time, a 911 call was placed by an unidentified female from Casey’s residence. “She’s ice-cold and her hands are turning blue,” stated the caller. “I have two other people here with me and we all think she’s dead. I don’t know if it’s suicide. Very often her medication gets all screwed up, so it’s probably that.” Paramedics arrived shortly thereafter. The Johnson & Johnson heiress whose life had been both a Cinderella fantasy and a living hell was pronounced dead on the scene.

It was a needless tragedy brought on by Casey’s dual illnesses — and her reckless approach to both.

Casey had everything money could buy and subsequently ignored all the rules about her diabetes diagnosis. “She thought she was invincible,” observes a friend.“Casey had always done whatever she wanted to do. She wound up in the hospital a few times, but the diabetes never killed her. I guess she thought she could do whatever she wanted to do — until the diabetes and her life-style did kill her.”

Sale Johnson remains devastated over the loss of her first-born daughter, but draws comfort from her hands-on approach to raising Ava-Monroe. The 7-year-old adores her adoptive grandmother, who earlier this year split from her second husband, NFL player-turned-sportscaster Ahmad Rashad. Grandmother and granddaughter now live together on a gated estate in South Florida.

“Ava’s the most beguiling creature on this planet,” declares Johnson. “She’s just a freak of nature. She’s just happy and smart and so up for anything. Life is an adventure.”

Adapted from “Crazy Rich” by Jerry Oppenheimer. Copyright 2013 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Press, LLC.


Jack Casey the person really isn’t all that different from Jack Casey the soccer player. In fact, in many ways, who the senior midfielder is on the field is indicative of who he is off. And vice versa.

In his first three years at Notre Dame, Casey had a knack for playing the perfect assist — for the game-winning goal against Boston College in 2018. For the game-winning goal against No. 2 Syracuse in 2016. For the game-winning goal against Duke again in 2016.

Observer File Photo

Propelling his teammates to excellence time and time again.

So he does off the field too — and having been named one of three captains for the 2019 season, he now has the nominal reinforcement.

Having grown from a role player as an underclassman to an integral part of the Irish operation as an upperclassman, Casey thinks his time on the bench is precisely what makes him the leader that he is.

“It’s definitely difficult your freshman year,” Casey said. “We recruit some of the best players in the country, and a lot of people aren’t used to not playing. As I’ve gotten older — it gives you an appreciation and understanding now that I am a senior and in the position of leadership, I’m able to understand what the freshmen and sophomores are going through, able to help them out and keep the team positive, that sort of thing.”

Having appeared in 18 matches his freshman season, Casey recorded his first career start as a sophomore — then recorded 19 more, being one of just six Irish players to start all 20 matches in 2017. As a junior, he again played in all 21 games, earning a starting spot in 19. As a senior, he’s solidified himself in the first string once again.

But for all of his success since growing into a vital piece of his team, it’s one of Casey’s earliest moments that’s one of his fondest.

“I wasn’t playing a lot my freshman year, but I came on in a really big game against Syracuse,” he said. “I remember scoring a goal, and I just had no idea what was happening. I was so surprised. It was a really great moment, especially having my mom in the stands — she was really excited. That was unbelievable for me.”

It was also family that helped land Casey in South Bend in the first place.

“My older sister actually was two years above me so she persuaded me. I don’t know if I could tell her otherwise,” he said.

Beyond following in his sister’s footsteps, Casey found himself drawn to the culture he found at Notre Dame, particularly in the locker room.

“I just kind of fell in love with it when I got on campus as a freshman,” he said. “When I first met the team, it seemed like a really cohesive group. I think that’s something that’s a tradition of the team and an identity of Notre Dame soccer — they do a good job not only recruiting good soccer players, but people who have really good character, who fit well into the program. I think that’s something that we’ve carried over in the four years I’ve been here.”

Casey noted the culture has maintained the same even after his team’s 2017 coaching change.

“The [coaching] transition was easy. I know [Bobby Clark] had been here forever and was an iconic role model and coach, but Chad [Riley] has stepped in,” Casey said. “He’s put his own brand on the team, and it’s gone really well and every year, I think it’s going to keep getting better.”

With Riley’s presence has been the perpetuation of that same culture which drew Casey to Notre Dame in the first place, with Casey doing his own part to create that environment too.

“This year, the whole team is more integrated than I’ve ever seen before,” he said. “The freshmen were immediately welcomed into the team. We’re all equals — it doesn’t matter if you’re a freshman, a senior, a fifth year. Everyone here has the same goals. We obviously all want to be playing, but I think we understand that everyone has a role to play. There’s an edge to our team as well on the field — there’s a ruthlessness and a toughness about us, which is obviously beneficial.”

Moving forward, Casey said he is confident in his team’s ability to use their competitive edge to their advantage. With the start of ACC play against Clemson tonight, he knows he and his teammates have the ability to get it done.

“There’s been a lot of positives in the first couple of games. Obviously still a lot to work on, but the first games were tough, and it was a good way to start the season before we get into playing the ACC. We’ll also learn a lot about our team [tonight] because Clemson will be a really tough game as well,” he said. “I am really excited for the rest of the season, and I’m very optimistic, especially with the way we’ve been playing and the way the team has integrated so well together.

“It should be a good game. I’m a little nervous, but I feel like I always am in the ACC every time we play Clemson, it’s always a really good game,” Casey said. “They play really nice attacking soccer, and I actually like playing against teams who play good soccer because I feel like it brings out the best in us. So, it should be fun.”

But it’s not just Friday Casey has circled on the calendar — it’s Tuesday, too.

“Indiana, at least for me, is probably our biggest rival,” he said. “This is a big one for us. … We’re definitely be confident going into that game.”


Jack returned for his fourth straight season, fed up with losing. He started on La Mina, and formed a final 2 alliance with Cassidy. After losing the first challenge, Cassidy and Jack, along with the fellow La Mina members agreed to vote out the silent member, Madeleine. Jack did not attend another tribal council until the tribe swap, where he ended up on Casaya, or "Casyaya", as he called it. Two members of the new Casaya were voted out as well as one member who quit, before Casaya won another challenge. After losing again after finally defeating La Mina the challenge before, the target was Jack. Cassidy and Jack scrambled to get votes but nothing was working out. Cassidy told Jack to vote for her so others would be inspired to vote for her as well, which ultimately failed. Cassidy revealed her idol to Jack, and told him he would play it on him, sparing him and sending herself home. She did it anyway, stating Jack wanted to play the game more, and all votes cast against Jack did not count, and Cassidy was voted out with 1 vote from Jack. After another unspeakable event occurred,the tribes merged and they became Snillor Idoj, named after Jack's favorite Big Brother player, Jodi Rollins (Spelled Backwards). Jack tried to win immunity, but newbies Wes and Benji, as well as returnee Adam decided they would win all the immunity challenges. Jack created an alliance with Alex and Phillip, vowing that he would get revenge on the former Casaya members that voted him off. After Adam was voted off for being a challenge threat, the Alex/Jack/Phillip alliance faded away after Alex was voted off, leaving Phillip and Jack on the outs. Jack joined the Swag Crew with Hanne and Wes, and after Wes told Jack that Phillip was going after him, the target was put onto Phillip and he was voted out. Jack secretly joined the Fabulous 3 alliance with Casey and Benji. Now, Jack was in the middle of two alliances and he had to pick a side. Wes won immunity and Wes had an idol, so he gave it to Hanne and Benji was voted out. Casey then won the Final 4 immunity and we hatched a plan. Jack tried to threaten Hanne, which ended up just scaring her. Casey corrected the issue and Wes was voted out of the game. Jack fought hard to win the final immunity and sadly lost because he can't handle a robot unicorn. Casey took him to the Final 2, where Jack lost 5-2.

Voting History

Jack E.'s Voting History
Episode Jack E.'s
Vote
Voted Against
Jack E.
1 Madeleine -
2 La Mina Tribe Immune
3 La Mina Tribe Immune
4 La Mina Tribe Immune
5 Casaya Tribe Immune
6 Jacob -
7 Adam -
8 No Vote
9 Cassidy Samrah, Elizabeth, Benji,
Cassidy, Casey, Adam
10 Elizabeth -
11 Adam -
12 Hanne -
13 Phil Phil
14 Benji -
15 Wes Wes
16 - -
Jury Vote
for Jack
Phil & Alex
Runner-Up, Day 82

Please honor Jack’s Memory with a donation to the Jack Casey Memorial Fund

On December 1, 2020 we lost one of the best, Jack Casey. I met Jack in February of 1992 almost 29 years ago. Jack had a way of seeing people for who they truly are. His capacity to listen deeply endeared him to the many communities he dedicated his life to serving. His work spanned and touched many communities including Student, LGBTQ , HIV/AIDS and, Recovery.

He is one of the men who taught me to be who I say I am and has held me up during my own 29 years of recovery and my work in the LGBTQ community, HIV/AIDS and with the young men and women we are privileged to serve at Medicine Wheel/SPOKE

What a gift it has been to have him by my side all these years, most recently as a board member of Medicine Wheel. I spoke with him last night, November 30, as we were preparing for the 29th annual World AIDS Day Vigil. In his usual manner he said: “What can I do to help?, how can I be of service. “ That was Jack, that was my friend.


The Feminist History of ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’

Described by Hall of Fame broadcaster Harry Caray as "a song that reflects the charisma of baseball,” ”Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” written in 1908 by lyricist Jack Norworth and composer Albert von Tilzer, is inextricably linked to America’s national pastime. But while most Americans can sing along as baseball fans “root, root, root for the home team,” few know the song’s feminist history.

A little more than a decade ago, George Boziwick, historian and former chief of the music division of the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center, uncovered the hidden history behind the tune: the song was written as Jack Norworth’s ode to his girlfriend, the progressive and outspoken Trixie Friganza, a famous vaudeville actress and suffragist.

Born in Grenola, Kansas, in 1870, Friganza was a vaudeville star by the age of 19, and her life was defined by her impact both on and off the stage. As a well-known comedic actress, Friganza was best known for playing larger-than-life characters, including Caroline Vokes in The Orchid and Mrs. Radcliffe in The Sweetest Girl in Paris. Off the stage, she was an influential and prominent suffragist who advocated for women’s social and political equality. The early 1900s were a critical time in the fight for the vote: members of the Women’s Progressive Suffrage Union held the first suffrage march in the United States in New York City in 1908, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) was established in 1909 to fight for voting rights of people of color, and in 1910, 10,000 people gathered in New York City’s Union Square for what was then the largest demonstration in support of women’s suffrage in American history.

Friganza, an unflinching supporter in the fight for the ballot, was a vital presence in a movement that needed to draw young, dynamic women into the cause. She attended rallies in support of women’s right to vote, gave speeches to gathering crowds, and donated generously to suffrage organizations. “I do not believe any man – at least no man I know – is better fitted to form a political opinion than I am,” Friganza declared at a suffrage rally in New York City in 1908.

Listen to this episode of the Smithsonian's podcast "Sidedoor" about the history of 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame"

“Trixie was one of the major suffragists,” says Susan Clermont, senior music specialist at the Library of Congress. “She was one of those women with her banner and her hat and her white dress, and she was a real force to be reckoned with for women’s rights.” In 1907, Friganza’s two worlds—celebrity and activism—would collide when she began a romantic relationship with Jack Norworth.

Norworth, a well-known vaudeville performer and songwriter in his own right, was married to actress Louise Dresser when he met Friganza. (When news of the wedded couple’s separation hit the press, Dresser announced that her husband was leaving her for the rival vaudeville star.) The affair was at its peak in 1908 when Norworth, riding the subway alone on an early spring day through New York City, noticed a sign that read “Baseball Today—Polo Grounds” and hastily wrote the lyrics of what would become “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” on the back of an envelope. Today, those original lyrics, complete with Norworth’s annotations, are on display at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York.

Norworth, realizing that what he had written was “pretty good,” took the lyrics to friend, collaborator and composer Albert von Tilzer. The pair knew that more songs had been written about baseball than any other sport in the U.S.—by 1908, hundreds of songs about the game had been published, including “The Baseball Polka” and “I’ve Been Making a Grandstand Play for You.” But they also knew that no single song about the sport had ever managed to capture the national imagination. So although neither Norworth nor von Tilzer had ever attended a baseball game, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” was registered with the U.S. Copyright Office on May 2, 1908.

The cover of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," featuring Trixie Friganza (New York Public Library)

While most Americans today recognize the chorus of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” it is the two additional, essentially unknown verses that reveal the song as a feminist anthem.

Katie Casey was baseball mad,
Had the fever and had it bad.
Just to root for the home town crew,
Ev’ry sou Katie blew.
On a Saturday her young beau
Called to see if she’d like to go
To see a show, but Miss Kate said “No,
I’ll tell you what you can do:

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd
Just buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,
I don’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don’t win, it’s a shame.
For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out,
At the old ball game.

Katie Casey saw all the games,
Knew the players by their first names.
Told the umpire he was wrong,
All along,
Good and strong.
When the score was just two to two,
Katie Casey knew what to do,
Just to cheer up the boys she knew,
She made the gang sing this song:

Take me out to the ball game….

Featuring a woman named Katie Casey who was “baseball mad,” who “saw all the games” and who “knew the players by their first names,” “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” tells the story of a woman operating and existing in what is traditionally a man’s space—the baseball stadium. Katie Casey was knowledgeable about the sport, she was argumentative with the umpires, and she was standing, not sitting, in the front row. She was the “New Woman” of the early 20th Century: empowered, engaged, and living in the world, uninhibited and full of passion. She was, historians now believe, Trixie Friganza.

(National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum)

“[Norworth] was with [Friganza] at the time he wrote this song,” says Clermont. “This is a very progressive woman he’s dating, and this is a very progressive Katie Casey. And [Friganza] very likely was the influence for ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

As further evidence that the fictional Katie Casey was based on Friganza, historians from Major League Baseball and the Library of Congress point to the covers of two original editions of the sheet music, which feature Friganza. “I contend the Norworth song was all about Trixie,” Boziwick told the New York Times in 2012. “None of the other baseball songs that came out around that time have the message of inclusion… and of a woman’s acceptability as part of the rooting crowd.” Boziwick’s discovery of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game’s” feminist history, coming nearly 100 years after the song’s publication, shows how women’s stories are so often forgotten, overlooked and untold, and reveals the power of one historian’s curiosity to investigate.

And while “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” has endured as one of the most popular songs in America over the century (due in no small part to announcer Harry Caray’s tradition, started in 1977, of leading White Sox fans in the chorus of the song during the 7th inning stretch), Friganza and Norworth’s romance ended long before the song became a regular feature in baseball stadiums across the U.S. Although Norworth’s divorce from Dresser, was finalized on June 15, 1908, just one month after the publication of the song, Norworth married his Ziegfeld Follies costar Nora Bayes, not Trixie Friganza, the following week.

The news came as a surprise to both tabloid readers and Friganza, but, not one to be relegated to the sidelines, she went on to star in over 20 films, marry twice and advocate for the rights of women and children. So, this postseason, enjoy some peanuts and Cracker Jacks and sing a round of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” for Trixie Friganza, Katie Casey and the bold women who committed their lives to fight for the ballot.

This piece was published in collaboration with the Women's Suffrage Centennial Commission, established by Congress to commemorate the 2020 centennial of the 19 th Amendment and women’s right to vote.


Watch the video: Hunter Channing (June 2022).


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