Oh, the time will come up when the game will stop
and shift to the last of the ninth inning.
And then you'll be the jock who stands in the batter's box
the hour when the pitch comes in.

Then they'll bring the heat and you swing will be sweet
and the ball will land in the deck that's upper.
And the fans will sing of the way that you swing
'cause you ate that fastball for supper.

Oh, the bell will sound for your man to take the mound
and a one-run lead to be defendin'.
And his slider will break, it's a pitch they cannot take
the hour when the pitch comes in.

And their swings are flawed and their bats are sawed
as his inside fastball is cuttin'.
And you'll shout with glee as the umpire calls, "Strike three!"
and they head back to their dugout with nuttin'.

Oh, the coach at third base, he will signal the case
and he'll give you the sign to be a-swingin'.
And the pitcher's got the nerve to throw you a hangin' curve
the hour that the pitch comes in.

And you know what must be done, execute the hit-and-run
as the first base runner will be stealin'.
And you slap that ball all the way to the wall
and the weary outfielders are reelin'.

Oh, the game is tied and tradition and pride
are the things in Game 7 you're sustainin'.
Your opponents will squeal and they'll know that you're for real
the hour that the pitch comes in.

And the fans clap their hands as you hit it to the stands
and you add to all the Pennants that you've numbered!
And the guys on your side, they're exulting in pride
and like King David, you have conquered.