I cheered for the Dodgers when I was a kid,
I'd go to Games at the old Ebbets Field.
When my old man would take me and maybe a friend of his
Might come along
Just to spend a few hours in the cold April Sun
With a couple of beers and a 3-fingered glove
Just in case that you get one our way.
Say Hey if you wanna or talk about Mantle,
The Duke of Flatbush was all that mattered
In Brownsville all Summer, when North Bedford Avenue
Was a trolley car trip, a nickel away
From the clamor of Summer,
Brother, you should have been there.
Sure I remember just like it's last year,
Furillo's out playing by the wall at right field,
Or Pee Wee Reese gloving back deep in the hole
For a ground ball to short stop
And throwing to Hodges
Stretched off Bedford space
While the Sun of all Summers confirmed in its place,
Shines like those old silver dimes.
And everyone had jobs and plenty of money
Left over to go to a Ball Game on Sunday,
We didn't need Welfare, nothing was broken,
Kids spent their dreams in the bleachers at Ebbets Field,
Cheering, hoping the Duke drove the winning run home.
We never won nothing one year to the next,
The best that we'd get to was just second best,
'Cause they'd beat us the Big Games
Seems every October we loused up the storming,
Summers would end with the hoarse-throated cheer
That we'd yell at the Bronx' boys:
Just wait till Next Year,
Come on back, bring Mantle, bring Berra...
Then Podres won two from the Yanks in the Series,
Don't you remember the day that we won,
And we've beaten the bastards,
Trolley cars clattered,
And shook on their sides on the ride back to Brownsville that night,
All winter The Bombs were the toast of the town.
There's nothing much left in Brownsville these days,
Some slow talk and drifters with fast little blades,
That'll cut you for nickels and dimes if you're foolish enough
To go walk any old Jewish streets.
Nothing's there you know, it's just broken glass gutters,
And boarded up storefronts where crazy men write in their bones.
And the Dodgers play Baseball in South California,
They tore down the Ballpark,
Say pal of I told you about A.B. and Podres,
And Newcombe and Hodges, and Campy, and Jackie, Jackie Robinson.
Summer in Brooklyn will never be that good again.