Lyrics - John McCutcheon

Transcription

Lyrics - John McCutcheon

Lyrics
Words & music by John McCutcheon
For all the Uncle Dales out there . . . and the kids they took under their wings.
He showed up one summer
And he stayed for a week
He could eat like a horse
And he could cuss a blue streak
They say he pitched for the Reds
Before he landed in jail
He was my father’s oldest brother
My Uncle Dale
Be as determined as the devil
Selfless as a saint
Keep it ‘tween the white lines
Hit it where they ain’t
If you play for the team
You won’t ever stand alone
Remember in the end you want to be
Safe at home
Mama said he’s trouble
Daddy said he’s kin
He opened up the door
And he walked him in
He’d holler through supper
And cry through grace
That summer our house
Was a mighty strange place
Bridge
Don’t play for the glory
It’s gone before you know it
Play for your heart
And don’t be afraid to show it
One evening after supper
He took me to the back lot
Tossed me a ball and said,
“Show me what you got.”
“But before you let her go, son
“You listen to me
“Ain’t nothing is forever
“Ain’t nothing is free.”
See, I had it all together
Then I let it slip away
You get just one chance here
No matter what they say
Folks are quick to remember
And slow to forgive
And that ain’t no way to play
It ain’t no way to live
Play each game
Like it was your last
Doesn’t do (anybody) any good
To be wild and fast
Keep your head on your shoulders
And your eye on the ball
Know when to take
And when to swing for the wall
He was gone one morning
Quick as he came
And I never ever saw
My Uncle Dale again
Since then I’ve heard a lot of preaching
But I never have found
Half as much wisdom
As his Sermon on the Mound
Be as determined as the devil
Selfless as a saint
Keep it ‘tween the white lines
Hit it where they ain’t
You won’t ever stand alone
If you’re smart and you’re lucky
If you’re faithful and true
Play by the rules
But still steal a base or two
You’ll never stand alone
Remember in the end you want to be
Safe at home
John: vocal & guitar
JJ: vocal, electric guitar, piano & organ
JT: vocal & bass
Jos: drum
Avondale Estates, GA, October 2007
©2008 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP)
Baseball on the Block
words & music by John McCutcheon & Si Kahn
Pure and simple.
Just a stick and a ball and a neighborhood call
And a space big enough for a game...
Third base is Eddie's old shirt
Second is Schmidt's Chevrolet
I had a sure double, I was just rounding first
When Schmidt's Mom drove second away
The grownups all sit on the doorsteps
Watching us play in the street
And the ev'ning feels lazy as softball
As it comes at you slow, sure and sweet
Chorus:
And it's one, two, three and you're out
Two, three, four balls you walk
The bases are loaded, I'm standing alone
Give me a sweet one, I'll bring us all home
These are the best days that I've ever known
Baseball on the block
At night we all listen to our radios
And follow each twist of the game
We know all the numbers, we know all the teams
We know every player by name
All those kids who once played in the sandlots
And did all the stuff that we do
With a ball and a glove and a game that we love
They're not that much different from you
Chorus
It's a hit in the gap, it's a sacrifice fly
It's one hit shut-out through four
It's a Texas-league double, a hit-and-run play
With one in position to score
It's the old "hidden ball" trick, a looper to right
The runners are looking to go
He shakes off a sign, checks the lead-off at first
Here's the wind-up, the stretch and the throw
So Willie, say hey, don't you wanna play
Meet me in the street after noon
Gimme low and away and I'll hit 'em all day
To the man who lives up in the moon
Chorus
JJohn: vocal, guitar & high-strung guitar
Bobby Read: piano
Pete Kennedy: guitar
Robert Jospé: drums
Dennis Espantman: bass
©1992 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP) & Joe Hill Music (ASCAP)
Big
…pants on fire!
Big is how they sell it
On my radio, newspapers and TV
It’s big buffet of tragedy
New Orleans, Gitmo, the war in Iraq
Global warming, it’s talk, talk, talk
Don’t pull out your hair, stomp or shout
Let’s focus on something worth worrying about
It’s the big story that shouldn’t be missed
Steroids in baseball, everybody’s pissed
Rafael Palmeiro from Baltimore
Pointed his finger on the Senate floor
His voice was full of indignation
As he swore in front of the whole damn nation
“I never used roids, I am not juiced!”
But in the Senate I guess they’re used to
Hearing stuff they know ain’t true
They act like they believe it too
You gotta be big
What I’m talking about
You better get big
Or you better get out
In the ballpark, the board room
Out on the farm
Roll up your sleeve
Stick out your arm
Big is better
Big is cool
You hear on the TV
Learn it in school
You read everyday
In your history class
How big folks kick
The little folks ass
JJ: vocal & electric guitar
JT: vocal & bass
Jos: drums
To all of us our rubes
We want big cars
And we want big boobs
We want big stats
Doesn’t matter how we got ‘em
Everything’s for sale
Everybody bought ‘em
“Everybody does it!”
Everybody cries
“We need a little leg up
To beat the other guys!”
Don’t matter if you lie
Don’t matter if you cheat
Don’t wanna be a loser
Don’t wanna get beat
Jose Conseco
He walked away
Mark Maguire, Sammy Sosa
What do you say?
Come on Barry Bonds,
Give it on up
Drop your drawers
Pick up the cup
`Gotta be a sport
When you play the game
We want a level field
Where we’re all the same
Wanna be a winner?
Then play it straight
Just tell the truth
Step up to the plate
And be big…
Coda
Just take me out to the ball game
One that’s played with skill
Where courage runs through good men’s veins
And does come from a needle or a pill
When men like Henry Aaron
Stood honest, brave, and tall
They paid the price
They sacrificed
That’s what I call
Being Big!
Doin’’ My Job
Doin
On September 6, 1995 Cal Ripkin, Jr. broke Lou Gehrig’s seemingly unbreakable record by playing in
2,131 consecutive games. (He went on to play in 2,632 consecutive games.) Halfway through the fifth
inning, when the game became official and the record was Cal’s, there was a raucous celebration with
Cal jogging the perimeter of Oriole Park high-fiving the fans. He was then asked to deliver a speech
to the watching world. This is what he said.
It was one for the ages
You just had to see
So we sat on the couch
My two kids and I
And we watched on TV
And it was in the fifth inning
The game it had to be stopped
The whole ballpark went nuts
When the number was dropped
My kids clapped and they hollered
Me, I choked up with tears
Thinking back on the grace
He brought to that place
For over thirteen years
And as he stood in the spotlight
He looked so awkward and shy
When they asked to say a few words on that day
This was his reply
I’m only doing my job
Like folks everywhere
Where I come from
It’s just how things are done
Doing my share
I did not love every part
Still I don’t think it’s odd
Give your best
And to hell with the rest
Doin’ my job
She gets up every morning
Gets the kids out the door
Then it’s carpool and shop
Vacuum and mop
Until they’re back home at four
Then it’s supper and homework
Until they’re all tucked away
It’s a kiss and goodnight
And you turn out the light
For the four thousandth day Chorus
We deliver the mail
We grow all the crops
We teach in the schools, we put out the fires
And we clerk in the shops
We enter the data
We build bridges and roads
We show up every day
We work for our pay
We carry the loads
Chorus
John: vocal and guitar
Tom Chapin: vocal and electric guitar
Michael Mark: vocal and bass
Bobby Read: saxophone
Winfield, KS, September 1995
Cross that Line
In 1947 Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in the Major Leagues, joining the Brooklyn Dodgers. He and Pee
Wee Reese, a former wire splicer from western Kentucky, formed one of the great double play combos of the age.
Robinson endured unimaginable taunting, threats, and dangers almost everywhere he played that year. Dodger
owner, Branch Rickey, had obtained a promise from Robinson not to retaliate to such provocations. The Dodgers first
series that season at Cincinnati’s Crosley Field was met by a particularly antagonistic crowd. Pee Wee, from just
across the Ohio River, was a local favorite despite playing for the rival team. During the course of the game he’d
simply had enough of the crowd’s abuse of Robinson and called time. He walked over to Robinson, put is arm around
Robinson’s shoulder and casually talked to him. The crowd sat in stunned silence. This one’s for Pee Wee.
He was a child of the South:
Learned stand your ground and shut your mouth
You bear your crosses everyday
Your fingers caked in Georgia clay
Another child, Southern grown
Learned stand your ground, defend your own
You grow up learning wrong from right
You grow up learning black from white
Worlds apart the season turns
Deep inside that fire burns
Who knows the place, who knows the time
When you are moved to cross the line?
Both bound by a boyhood sport
Jack played at second, Pee Wee short
That day they met on Brooklyn’s field
Their histories never seemed so real
One saw the other take the throws
He saw the spikes, he saw blows
He knew the promise that was made
He knew the price the other paid
No way to know he’d be the one
Beneath that Cincinnati sun
He heard the taunts he heard the jeers
He felt the burden of the years
He called for time and then he walked from short
to first
Stood and faced the man who’d faced the worst
Then these two children of the South
Arm in arm stood their ground and shut the
mouths
John: guitar & vocal
JT: bass
Winona, MN, April 1997
One More Mountaintop
Tim Forneris was a groundskeeper who recovered The Million Dollar Ball that Mark McGwire barely hit over
Busch Stadium’s left field wall, September 8, 1998. He immediately returned it to McGwire. As of 2005, Forneris
was still working on the Busch Stadium crew. He works, by day, as a public defender.
Growing up it was my dream to play this game
And like ten million other kids I guess I knew I dreamt in vain
But still at night I never could forget
So I got this job as close as I could get
I knew that it was gone, headed for the left field stands
To a million waiting fingers, a hundred thousand outstretched hands
It only had enough to barely clear the outfield wall
Now lying at my feet is the million dollar ball
There is always one more mountaintop to dream
There are choices to be made and visions to be seen
Some do it in the spotlight, some do it for the show
Some do it in the shadows so no one will ever know
Whether you carry the water or whether you carry the team
There is always one more mountaintop be dream
Now, you know, I ain’t got much but I do alright
Working on the crew I’ve got a front row seat at night
And it still thrills me just to see the grass so green
And I marvel the heroes I have seen
Sometimes I’ll bring the kids if the Cubbies are in town
And he always stops to talk if he knows that they’re around
My life would be so different if I called this ball my own
I could give my kids the things they’ve never known
There are choice to be made and visions to be seen
So picked up the ball and wiped off all the dirt
Wrapped it in a rag and stuffed it deep inside my shirt
Walked into the fireworks, the lights and endless roars
Said, “I think that I have something that is yours”
At the end of the evening when the crowds have gone away
And you’re left with your decisions and the price you chose to pay
Some will go to Cooperstown and some will just go home
And we’ll marvel at the heroes we have known
There are choice to be made and visions to be seen
John: guitar and vocal
JT: bass & harmony vocals
Jos: drums and percussion
Mike Mumford : banjo
Moondi Klein: harmony vocals
Te Recuerdo
Roberto Clemente was the first major Latin star of major league baseball. Born in Puerto Rico, he
was an all-star right fielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates. A remarkable humanitarian, he died on
New Years Eve 1972 while leading a relief mission to Nicaragua in the wake of the devastating
earthquake that struck Managua Christmas of that year. His last at-bat was his 3,000th hit.
You were an island
Alone where the three rivers meet
A beautiful fury, you moved like a fish
Ranging that great, green sea
Un boricua
You were summer in winter
The solitary skin, the tongue
The arm of God
The hand of gold
Puerto Rico’s son
Chorus
Te recuerdo, Roberto
Recuerdo tu vida y (tu) pasion
Ay, todavia juegas
En el campo de mi corazón
Te recuerdo, Roberto
I still see you standing so proud
That September afternoon
The ball, like the thousands before it, lay
In the grass like a broken moon
That final at bat
The last walk to the wall
You tipped your hat
To say thanks to you all
Not a one of us knew
You were saying good bye Chorus
The earth broke open
En Nicaraguita
On a Christmas Eve so clear
Your heart was aflame
As you took to the sky
Into the last dawn of the year
The plane laden with mercy fell like a star
From the heavens into the deep
The arc of a ball in the morning sky
An island longing for the sea Chorus
Catch
It all comes down to this.
I stand
in the cool loneliness
of the November afternoon
my face awash
in labor,
sweater long abandoned
a warm clutter
on the porch
sleeves curled high,
gathering again
the fallen tears
of the once-fiery maple.
I claw at the ground
with a great wing
of fingers
coaxing these stubborn feathers
into their pyre.
When at the very edge of the yard
at the foot of the hackberry
some small surprise
rolls from the roots...
a ball!
Lost long ago
sought
and surrendered
an impossible find
a small treasure
filled with remembrance.
And I recall
that long-ago search
how it grew ever more anxious
until finally
another ball is remembered
in the house
and this is given up
for dead
forever.
And the game went on...
in that great ball field
that we find
where ever need calls:
all the space required
to heave this small stone
from one sure hand
to another
the simplest,
the purest of Game.
Before all this
we played
with cotton-swathed rocks
with wadded-up plastic bags
with small bits of wood
worried round and smooth
with allowance money
turned into a true baseball
(no less miraculous than Cana)
with lost refugees from old games
unearthed just as today.
And
in a joy I cannot explain
I met my son here
in this place
and took my own heart
swaddled in horsehide
and stitched up tight
and sent it to him
a gentle, soul-full arc
through the air
of home.
And little by little
he grew less afraid
he anticipated its path
and he captured it from the sky.
And little by little
he became comfortable
confident
transcendent
(grounders
pop flies
curve balls
knucklers)
until it became
breath
in and out
back and forth
the hypnotic
flight
from father to son
from son to father
breeding language
information
question
until
the sun's own arc
or the smell of supper
or the call of the childhood wild
or an errant throw
broke the spell
and life again donned
less beauteous skin
and he was gone.
I sit here now
holding again
this dirt-smeared jewel
a relic from this scattered family's mine of memories
and play a small catch
...right to left
left to right...
with myself
with this small resuscitated heart
the size of my son's own
so long ago
and am redeemed.
I put the ball
in my own pocket
feeling my son
on my hip all afternoon
and slipped it into my closet
for the next time
he comes home.
The Star Spangled Banner
By Francis Scott Key, 1814
Until I was fourteen years old I actually thought the two final words of the National
Anthem were “Play ball!”
Melody: “The Anacreontic Song”
(commonly known as “To Anacreon in Heaven”) by John Stafford Smith,
John: hammer dulcimer
Here are lyrics to the original song, a 17th-century drinking song.
To Anacreon in heaven where he sat in full glee,
A few sons of harmony sent a petition,
That he their inspirer and patron would be,
When this answer arrived from the jolly old Grecian:
Voice, fiddle aud flute, no longer be mute,
I'll lend you my name and inspire you to boot!
And besides I'll instruct you like me to entwine
The myrtle of Venus and Bacchus's vine.
The news through Olympus immediately flew,
When old Thunder pretended to give himself airs,
If these mortals are suffered their scheme to pursue,
The devil a goddess will stay above stairs,
Hark! already they cry, in transports of joy,
A fig for Parnassus, to Rowley's we'll fly,
And there my good fellows, we'll learn to entwine
The myrtle of Venus and Bacchus's vine.
The yellow-haired god, and his nine fusty maids,
To the hill of old Lud will incontinent flee,
Idalia will boast but of tenantless shades,
And the biforked hill a mere desert will be,
My thunder, no fear on't, will soon do its errand,
And, damn me I'll swinge the ringleaders, I warrant
I'll trim the young dogs, for thus daring to twine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
Apollo rose up and said, "Prythee ne'er quarrel,
Good king of the gods, with my votaries below
Your thunder is useless - then showing his laurel,
Cried, Sic evitabile fulmen, you know!
Then over each head my laurels I'll spread,
So my sons from your crackers no mischief shall dread
Whilst snug in their club-room, they jovially twine
I Am Here
In May of 2001, I was invited to give a concert at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. This
song is what I imagined might be the thoughts of some of my childhood heroes who made it there for all
of us who still wish upon that star.
We gather every summer here
To celebrate our game
And raise above our number
Those heroes we can name
But today I want to tell my Dad
A thing he never thought he’d hear:
I am here
Those Saturdays at our house
The Braves there on the screen
The names of Matthews, Aaron, Spahn
Were but a wondrous , distant dream
But those not enshrined in Cooperstown
I hold them just as dear
And it is in their name that I am here
For every bleacher bum who tosses back
A visitor’s home run
For every sorry, battered loser
Who still thinks this game is fun
For those still cheering for the Cubbies
After all these years
I am here
For every parent, every child
Playing catch out in the yard
For every guy whose mother threw away
That box of baseball cards
Who thinks back on their hometown team
And will not fight a tear
I am here
Chorus
For every kid who’s chosen last
And comes back a second time
For every life-time minor leaguer
For the last guy in the line
For every broken-hearted Phillie’s fan
Crying in their beer
I am here
For every kid that played in little league
Who still walks in those dreams
For every small market last place crowd
Who cheers the hometown team
For every fan who truly does believe
That this might be the year
I am here
For those who’ll try to stretch
A single to a double every time
For every sacrifice and squeeze play
When the game is on the line
For every ten year old who faces
Their first curve ball without fear
I am here
For every aching joint and muscle
On your hometown senior league
For every fifty-year-old dreamer
Who fights through the fatigue
Whose only satisfaction is
One good swing and a beer
I am here
Chorus
Chorus
I am here
For all the others
Who never got this far
I am here
For every kid out there
Still wishing on that star
For every hope raised like a beacon
Proud and bright and clear
I am here
I wish I could tell every story
I wish that I knew every name
Of every coach and comrade
Who made me love this game
Every teammate, each opponent
I want to tell them all
This is your Hall
For every pickup game and sandlot
In every little town
For every street in every city
Where stickball still is found
For every 6 or 86 year old
Still swinging for the wall
This is your Hall
Chorus
John: vocal and guitar
JJ: vocal and guitar, piano, organ & drums
JT: bass
Cooperstown, NY May 2001
Talking Yogi Talk
Words (mostly) by Yogi Berra adapted by John McCutcheon
The Tao of Yogi. “You can observe a lot just by watching!”
I wanna tell you a story about hero of mine
I was about six or seven at the time
Learning to catch and to communicate
When up stepped the Yankee’s #8
One of the best to ever play the game
Enshrined in Baseball’s Hall of Fame
Yogi Berra could hit and he could throw
But when he opened his mouth, well, you just didn’t know
He hits from both sides of the plate, he’s amphibious!
He had deep depth, though he’d sometimes fake it
When came to a fork in the road, he’d take it
Yogi’s words could walk the walk
Like when he’d shout, “Shut up and talk!”
OK, everybody, pair up in threes
The future ain’t what it used to be
I ain’t buying encyclopedias for my kids
Let ‘em walk to school just like I did
………..
A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore
I take a two hour nap, from one to four
If I didn’t wake up, I’d be sleeping then
If you don’t set goals, you can’t regret not reaching them
We made too many wrong mistakes
Even Napoleon had his Watergate
Gets late early out here, I’m telling you
Half the lies they tell about me aren’t true
You better cut that pizza into four pieces, I’m not hungry enough to eat eight.
………
Some of his stuff was transcendental
Like, “90% of the game is half mental”
Sometimes he’d say things that actually sounded profound:
“In theory there is no difference between theory & practice. In practice, there is.”
It ain’t the heat, it’s the humility
If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be
He claims he never said most of the things he said
Life will be drearier when he’s dead
……
And sometimes when it’s late at night
I ponder ‘bout that heavenly sight:
Yogi and Casey talking in God’s den
It’s deju vú…all over again
Coda
You know, you can observe a lot just by watching
Nobody goes there anymore, it’s too crowded
It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.
Avondale Estates, GA, September 2007
Take Me Out to the Ballgame
Written By: Jack Norworth & Albert Von Tilzer
For Harry Carey
Take me out to the ballgame
Take me out to the crowd
Buy me some peanuts & Cracker Jack
I don’t care if I never get back
And it’s root, root, root for the home team
If they don’t win it’s a shame
And it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out
At the old ball game
Here are the verses that almost no one knows…
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 Katie said "no,
I'll tell you what you can do:"
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:
John: vocal
Copyright Unknown
World Series ‘57
Words & music by John McCutcheon & Si Kahn
for Dad
In 1957 the Milwaukee Braves beat the New York Yankees for the only World Series title in Wisconsin’s
history. My father and I would watch Braves games on television each Saturday. It was always the highlight
of my week. For the less rabid baseball fan, here is the interpretation of Braves personnel: Warren Spahn
(LHP), Red Schoendienst (2B), Johnny Logan (SS), Lew Burdette (RHP...Series MVP who won 3
games!),Andy Pafko (OF), Wes Covington (OF), Felix Mantilla (2B), Joe Adcock (1B), Henry Aaron (OF),
Eddie Matthews (3B), and my life-long hero, catcher Del Crandall.
It was cool in October the year I turned five
The wind off the Lake made you feel so alive
Oh, the Yankees were coming like a force out of heaven
For the World Series in ‘57
There was Spahnie and Red, Johnny Logan and Lew
Pafko, Wes, Felix, and Joe Adcock, too
There was Henry and Eddie and my hero, Del
Right there on the TV I remember it well
Bridge
When a town loved a team
And a team loved a town
And you cheered for your heroes
Even when they were down
The crack of the bat
The jump of the ball
The roar of the crowd
As it cleared the far wall
Chorus
It’s the Star Spangled Banner
At the top of your lungs
Like when we were young
I’ll remember each play
To the end of my days
In the land of the free
And the home of the Braves
So now every autumn I gather my kids
And I tell them about the Brave deeds that we did
My Dad and the TV trays out in the den
And I feel like I’m five in the Series again
Though we took it in seven it was all for the show
We were toying with Casey and a good chance of snow
For fans in Wisconsin are tough women and men
And it’s warmed all our hearts each October since then Chorus
It’s the Star Spangled Banner
At the top of your lungs
Like when we were young
I’ll remember each play
To the end of my days
Oh, say can you see
My old man and me
In the land of the free
And the home of the Braves
John: vocal, 6 & 12-string guitars
Pete Kennedy: mandolin
JT: bass & vocal
Jos: drums
Jon Carroll: vocal
Charlottesville, VA, March 1997
©1997 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP) and Joe Hill Music (ASCAP)
John Rocker
You want him in the bullpen, you want him in the zone, but you want him
far away from a microphone.
You give a kid a pile of money
And you put him on TV
For being better at a game
Than you and I will ever be
And you want him in your bullpen
And you want him in the zone
But you want him far away
From the microphone
‘Cause I am the queer with AIDS, John Rocker
I’m the single mother with the kids, John Rocker
I am the foreigner and I got here
The same way your people did, John Rocker
So take your seat on the subway
Get on the bus
Underneath your fears
You’re just one of us
John Rocker did an interview
He told us what he thought
It’s what a lot of people think
But he got caught
Now everybody’s wondering
Just what we’re gonna do
About the ugly little secret
That we always knew
John Rocker did an interview
He told us what he thought
It’s what a lot of people think
But he got caught
When I read the story
First thing that came to mind
Was how Henry Aaron
Fought his whole lifetime
To battle all the demons
That raised their heads
In the kind of ideas
That interview spread
How many years?
How many times?
How many jokes?
How many crimes?
How many mistakes?
How many abuses?
How many apologies?
How many excuses?
JT: bass
Orrville, OH, January 2000
Modern Kid Blues
I don’t know how they do it. And I’m not so sure they should.
I wake up every morning
Mom drives me to the pool
I've got 2 hours of swim team
Before I have to be in school
Then it's Little League on Monday
African drumming that night
Then it's an hour of violin practice and homework
Before I turn out the light
The little ones watched the big ones
And that is how they learned
And if someone got hurt or bled or cried
No one got concerned
You just picked yourself up, dusted off
And you got back in the game
Baseball or skating or football
Man, it all was the same
On Tuesday it is soccer
Wednesday Tai Kwando
And Thursday it's gymnastics
For an hour and a half or so
On the weekends I've got tournaments
Sometimes three or four
If it wasn't for my stress management class
I just don't think I could take anymore
I don't know how they managed
I can't figure out what they did
With no classes or coaches
Counselers or camps
How'd they ever learn to be a kid?
They'd just sit around all weekend and all summer
Without a thing to do
No, I can't imagine what I'd do with all that time
Can you?
My Grandad came to visit
He said, "C'mon, let's throw the ball."
I said, "Sure!" and headed
To that closet down the hall
I put on my spikes and my uniform
My cap and my shades and my wrist bands, too
My Grandad shook his head and said,
"Boy, what has happened to you?"
Then he sits me down and tells me
'Bout when he was a little kid
How they played ball from Spring to Fall
And listen to what they did,
They'd find a yard and pick up sides and play a game
With not one adult at all
No coach, no crowd, no umpire
And, listen, 'cause that ain't all!
JJohn: vocal & guitar
JJ: electric guitar
JT: bass
Jos: drums
Hope I Make It
Words & music by John McCutcheon and Si Kahn
I hope you make it, too.
for Peter & Charlie
When the signs went up
Me and Eddie went down
To the county park
On the southside of town
We gathered at the diamond
All fresh and green
At the tryouts for my little league team
Eddie and me, we been playin’
Ever since we was four
Soon as I was big enough, man,
I was out the door
Dad would get home
From the factory
In time to have a catch
With Eddie and me (and he said,..)
Chorus
Always give it your best
No matter what you do
I hope I make it
I hope I make it
I hope I make it
I hope you make it, too
I take my number
And I take my place
Eddie’s at short
I’m at second base
The so ball’s fast
Hope I remember what to do
Eddie’s says he’s scared
And I am too (But I tell him,...) Chorus
John: vocal and guitars
Michael: piano & organ
Pete: electric guitar
JT: bass & harmony vocals
Jos: drums & percussion
Kevin: percussion
Bobby: saxophone
Jon: harmony vocals
Charlottesville, VA 1998
©1998 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP) & Joe Hill Music (ASCAP)
Bridge
I’ve seen it in my dreams
About a hundred times
A hard ground ball
Down the third base line
The air is sweet, the new birds sing
I close my eyes
And take a swing
Planted here in the bleachers
How my memories return
To this same green field
Waiting for my turn
My fingers sweat, my stomach aches
As she shoulders her bat and she steps to the plate
(But I told her...)
Chorus
Always give it your best
No matter what you do
I hope she makes it
I hope she makes it
I hope she makes it
I hope she makes it
I hope she makes it
I hope I make it, too
Lyrics

Lyrics - John McCutcheon

Transcription

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