Mike Edel - The Closer
текст песни

Hot in the summer, hot to the glove,
down the barrel and over the top
Into the box like their up against a wall
with a blindfold on looking for a walk

Smoke twisting up from the field
off the coaches cigar and the idle kick
It was all-surefire a downhill sprint
when up to the mound he saw his mother running

“Oh they’ll remember you son over the lot,
throwing strikes on strikes not even a walk,
but I’ve come here to bring you in
cause your old mans had an accident.”

Red stitch slip in a downward spin
as a signal to the pen bring the closer in
The grain, his hand, the auger got it,
and the stubble is the color of the dust on your mitt.
The stubble is the color of the dust on your mitt

“Don’t you remember that heat thrown over the top,
all those strikes not even a walk
And those perfect 8 till the closer came
On that day his old man went
And those perfect 8 till the closer came in,
For the ninth to give up three and the win.”