Sitting in the June fog in the bleachers with the cops
The retired teachers and the Sinatra fans, the guys

Still looking for Willie Mays alone under the lights
In centerfield at Candlestick Park, loneliness builds

Like quickness, as repetition and preparation
Quiver into muscle memory, jumbled among

The things they wish they hadn’t taught their kids. The shot
Heard round the world never caught you in San Francisco

And the bad hops never kept you awake. That’s the stuff
That never makes the box score and made you the girl for me.