I'll try to put words to my old stomping ground,
Just a foot-sized bare patch, not far from a pitcher's mound,
Worn by furious footfalls, which by dozens would land
As that little white ball left my little right hand.
Every third was a beauty, and every third hurt,
Leaving Keith, my old catcher, to rub shins and kick dirt.
And Dave's was the front of the left batter's box.
He'd stomp and he'd dig. That boy hit like an ox.
But I guess it was Perry who stomped most of all.
He'd argue on hits, and on strikes, and foul balls.
He was the reason, most of all, for the noise,
Even more than expected from twelve growing boys.
I remember when we could still laugh and have fun
When we told the old stories of thing Per had done.
The word “stomping ground” means more than it did
When I remember what happened to that angry kid.
Now the world just goes quiet for miles around
On my shuffling strolls past my old stomping ground.
Just a foot-sized bare patch, not far from a pitcher's mound,
Worn by furious footfalls, which by dozens would land
As that little white ball left my little right hand.
Every third was a beauty, and every third hurt,
Leaving Keith, my old catcher, to rub shins and kick dirt.
And Dave's was the front of the left batter's box.
He'd stomp and he'd dig. That boy hit like an ox.
But I guess it was Perry who stomped most of all.
He'd argue on hits, and on strikes, and foul balls.
He was the reason, most of all, for the noise,
Even more than expected from twelve growing boys.
I remember when we could still laugh and have fun
When we told the old stories of thing Per had done.
The word “stomping ground” means more than it did
When I remember what happened to that angry kid.
Now the world just goes quiet for miles around
On my shuffling strolls past my old stomping ground.
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