Chuck wrote the following poem for his mother’s birthday

This festive eve is meant to bring some joy and mirth to you
For being such a grand old girl it’s the least that I can do.
So make yourself a merry time eat and drink – be gay.
You reign in regal splendor, dear
On this happy joyous day…

    Casey at the Bat
       by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

 The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which prings eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that-
We'd put up even more money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For thre seemed but little chace of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy bats man the ball undeeded sped -
'That ain't my style,' said Casey. 'Strike one!' the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore;
'Kill him!  Kill the umpire!' shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said 'Strike two!'

'Fraud!' cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered 'Fraud!'
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are kight,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.

Out, out brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow,
A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more;
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury.
Signifying nothing.” 


Chuck added, “That is a baseball player’s life in a nutshell – if he doesn’t save his money!”

Not satisfied to just quote other authors, Chuck wrote poetry himself.  While in the Army, he wrote a poem about the death of FDR that was printed in Stars and Stripes. 

 Chuck was invited to be a guest speaker often, he added 
  The Face on the Barroom Floor to his repertoire.

It's no problem at all for me," he said in 1983. "My whole ability to make a living is derived from the fact that I was 'The Rifleman'."                                     Los Angeles Times Nov. 11, 1992

 "Each of us needs love. When I travel around I find that my performances have won love for me, and I want to return that love.  I'm grateful God has chosen me to channel his grace."                                                                            The Sunday Tribune, January 17, 1965

"Talent is God-given, be grateful. Conceit is self-made, be careful."
                                                                                   Western Clippings, May/June 2013


From the private collection of David Fury

Another Favorite Poem of Chuck's was
       The Shooting of Dan McGrew

Chuck is also credited for writing professionally.  He contributed to four episodes of

"The Rifleman", The Actress, The Visitor, Blood Brothers and The Boarding House.  His writing contributions didn't stop with "The Rifleman",  he also helped write a two-part episode of "Branded". Chuck Connors was articulate, intelligent and very well-read.  Added to his talents both in the field of sports and acting made him a force to be reckoned with in life. Chuck Connors was articulate, intelligent and very well-read.  Added to his talents both in the field of sports and acting made him a force to be reckoned with in life.

It has been said that Irishmen have a gift for storytelling, a natural affinity for words. Such can certainly be said about Chuck Connors. As a boy, Chuck was a good student at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in Brooklyn – scoring a 95 in English on his 8th Grade report card.  His excellence in academics continued into high school.  An Adelphi Academy classmate remembered they used to call him Scoop because Chuck hoped to be a sports writer one day.

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.
 When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.  

 There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;

And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,
So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands my God! but that man could play.

 Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars?
Then you've a haunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars. 

And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true --
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, -- the lady that's known as Lou).

 Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere", said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away. . .then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay", and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill. . . then the music stopped with a crash,

And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell. . .and that one is Dan McGrew." 
Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark,
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou. 
These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say the stranger was crazed with "hooch", and I'm not denying it's so.
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two --
The woman that kissed him and -- pinched his poke -- was the lady that's known as Lou.

'Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there,
That well nigh filled Joes' barroom at the corner of the square.
As songs and witty stories came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.
“Where did it come from?” someone said,
“The wind has blown it in.”
“What does it want?” another cried,“Some whiskey, rum or gin?”
Here Toby, sic’ em, If your stomach is equal to the work,
I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a Turk.
This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace.
In fact, he smiled as though he thought he had struck the proper place.
Come boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd;
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.
Give me a drink, that’s what I want. I'm out of funds you know,
 when I had cash to treat the gang, this lad was never slow.
What? You laugh as though you think, this pocket never held a sou,
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any of you.
There thanks, that’s braced me nicely. God Bless you one and all.
 Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can't do that. My singing days are past.
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.
Aye, give me another whiskey and I'll tell you what to do
 I'll tell you a funny story and in fact I'll promise two.
That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think,
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.
Fill'er up, Joe, I want to put some life into this old frame.
Such little drinks, to a bum like meare miserably tame.
Five fingers, that's the scene, and corking and whiskey too,
Well, here's luck boys, and landlord, my best respects to you.
 You’ve treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how,
I came to be this dirty sap, you see before you now.
As I told you once, I was a man with muscle, frame and health,
But for a blunder, ought have made considerable wealth.
I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks or wood,
But an artist, and for my age I was rated pretty good,
I worked hard at my canvas, and bidding fair to rise,
And gradually I saw, the star of fame before my eyes.
I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, it's called the “Chase of Fame.
”It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name. 
It was then I met a woman, now come the funny part;
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sank into my heart.
Why don't you laugh it's funny, that the vagabond you see
could ever have a woman and expect her love for me.
But it was so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine, I thought I was in heaven.
Boys did you ever see a girl, for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like Venus De Milo, too beautiful to live,
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor,
And a wealth of chestnut hair?
If so, it was she, for boys there never was, another half so fair.
I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
Of a fair haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way.
My Madeline admired him, and much to my surprise,
She said she'd like to know the lad, who had such dreamy eyes.
She didn't take long to find him, before the month had flown,
My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone.
And ere a year of misery had passed above my head.
That jewel I treasured so, had tarnished and was dead.
That's why I took to drink boys. Why, I never see you smile,
I thought you'd be amused boys, and laughing all the while.
Why, what's the matter friend? There's a teardrop in your eye.
Come, laugh like me. It's only babes and women that should cry.
Say boys, if you give me just another whiskey and I'll be glad,
I'll draw right here the picture, of the face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score;
You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor.
Another drink and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began,
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then, as he placed another lock upon that shapely head,
With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture — dead!



That natural ability helped him win an elocution contest when he was at Seton Hall College.  It took Freshman Chuck three weeks to memorize and prepare to dramatically recite Vachel Lindsay’s Congo.  Chuck recalled what an honor it was for him when the audience applauded his performance. He was written up in the school newspaper that identified him as “a scholar, athlete and orator… with a masterful imagination and a phenomenal literary genius!”  His love of words carried over to his basketball and baseball days.  He was in great demand as a dinner speaker.  His recitation of Casey at the Bat was extremely popular.     

 Chuck carried volumes of Shakespeare with him on the road and was famous for quoting Shakespeare during a ballgame – often at the umpires.  His teammates called him

The Barrymore of Baseball.  In a 1951 interview while playing in the Pacific Coast League, Chuck was asked if there was any passage from Shakespeare that was particularly applicable to baseball and Chuck responded with the following quote from Macbeth:

 Another poem written by Chuck was
  "An Actor"
A writer can pawn his typewriter,
A painter can pawn his oils,
A musician can pawn his instruments,
And a fencer can pawn his foils.
But when an actor is down on his luck,
And it's been some time since his last role,
If he should try to pawn the tools of his trade,
How much would he get for a sensitive soul?

In His Own Words

 In honor of the birth of his first son, Michael, Chuck was inspired to write the following Parody on Casey at Bat
(Written on November 11, 1950)

Chuck also brought his vocal gifts to music by recording two songs with the  Salvation Army Chorus, Seventy Times Seven and Somebody Bigger Than You and I.

It looked extremely gloomy for the Connors pair at first.
Not having any young‘uns was the feeling that was worst.
So when a year rolled by and nothing was a cookin’,
They felt quite sure that Nature had given them a rookin’.
Persistent in their efforts they wouldn’t take a rest,
With the hope which springs eternal within the human breast.
They thought if only something could be added to their zeal,
They’d revel in the glory of a brand-new baby’s squeal.
Another month went by and sad they were indeed
Until a trip to the Laurentians supplied the vital need.
When some weeks had flitted and they learned what had occurred,
They became extremely anxious for the coming of the third.
The happiness of those two, like the tidings of a bell,
Reached up in the mountaintops and sounded in the dell;
It struck upon the hillside, rebounded in the flat
For, BABY, WONDROUS BABY, was soon to be a fact.
There was joy in Betty’s manner in each and every place;
And pride in Chuckie’s bearing and a smile on Chuckie’s face.
When responding to the well wishes on Betty’s increased size
They knew their Laurentian trip had been very, very wise.
Ten thousand eyes were on them as the weeks just slipped away;
Ten thousand hands applauded the passing of each day.
And when the hour approached for the crisis to be met,
Defiance glared in Betty’s eye but Chuck was in a sweat.
The cravings of the mother-soon knew no earthly range.
And even Chuck, the dad-to-be, was acting very strange.
Once, while with the doctor, a tear had Betty shed:
“May I eat some onions?” --- “Not one!” The doctor said.
From her feelings down inside her there came a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm wave on a stern and distant shore,
“Oh, doctor, I want onions.” was Betty’s loud demand.
And it’s likely she’d have ate them had not doctor raised his hand,
With a smile of Christian charity the doctor’s visage beamed,
He soothed the rising tumult until happy Betty seemed.
And then the day arrived for Betty to depart
 And Chuck was all flustered as he had been from the start.
Soon a nurse called him when Betty was in bed
And he sat and held her hand, wild thoughts in his head.
Then the time grew short and finally did halt
And when the nurse took Bet away he knew t’was all his fault.
Seconds seemed like hours and waiting just plain hell
And he prayed and paced and prayed that his Betty love was well.
When the doctor finally came, poor Chuckie was a wreck
And reached to take the outstretched hand before he hit the deck.
Oh somewhere in this favored land the gloom is inches thick;
Things so bad all over it just makes you sick.
But the Connors’ hearts are happy – filled with utter joy!
And the baby’s name is MICHAEL – yes, a little BOY!