I.
In each long-deserted ball park from New York to Tennessee
There’s the whisper of an echo wafted forth to you and me;
For the wind calls through the pine trees and the maples, soft and low:
“Come ye back, ye wild Fanatic—come ye back to Rooters’ Row.”
On the road to Rooters’ Row,
In the sunlight’s golden glow,
Can’t you hear those mad Bugs whooping
As the pitcher fans a foe?
On the road to Rooters’ Row,
Where the sad fans wail in woe—
Then a cheer comes up like thunder
When the shortstop lays him low.