Bobby Fitch was on the hill, a kid I knew about
His fastball hummed just like a drill, and his curve moved in and out
I walked like Willie and took my place in the batter’s box
I put a scowl upon my face and spit right on my socks

Fitch stared a glare as fierce as mine, he wouldn’t be outdone
He chucked a fast one really fine; the umpire yelled, “Strike One”
Out of the box to spread some dirt upon my shaky hands
Jeez, a strikeout now would hurt with family in the stands

I tapped my spikes and hitched my pants like I’d seen Willie do
I barely got to take my stance when the ump called out, “Strike Two”
Things were getting desperate now; the ball was hard to see
Sweat was forming on my brow as I thought about strike three

Then in my head I heard him say,” Stand up there proud and tall
You’re as good as Fitch is any day; keep you eye on his fastball”
Fitch wound up and reared way back and let his hummer fly
My swing was smooth, I heard a crack as the ball took to the sky

I rounded first like Willie did and slowed down to a trot
For at that moment this little kid had knocked one off the lot
I cruised past third and crossed the plate ‘mid wild and happy cheers
And ‘though this boy was only eight, I’ve remembered all these years

My bat and ball are placed away in a box beneath the floor
But every spring on the first warm day, I bring them up once more
I’ve earned degrees and honors too, and you might think it silly
But there’s nothing I would rather do than hit one more like Willie