For all you who await Opening Day

I Am Here (2001)
words and music by John McCutcheon

Written for a concert at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 2001.

We gather every August here
To celebrate our game
And raise above our number
Those heroes we can name
But today I want to tell my Dad
A thing he never thought he’d hear:
I am here
Those Saturdays at our house
The Braves there on the screen
The names of Matthews, Aaron, Spahn
Were but a distant, wondrous dream
But those not enshrined in Cooperstown
I hold them just as dear
And it is in their name that I am here

For every kid who’s chosen last
And comes back a second time
For every life-time minor leaguer
For the last guy in the line
For every broken-hearted Red Sox fan
Crying in his beer
I am here
For every kid that played in little league
Who still walks in those dreams
For every small market last place crowd
Who cheers the hometown team
For every fan who truly does believe
That this might be the year
I am here

I am here
For all the others
Who never got this far
I am here
For every kid out there
Still wishing on that star
For every hope raised like a beacon
Proud and bright and clear
I am here, I am here

For every bleacher bun who tosses back
A visitor’s home run
For every sorry, battered loser
Who still thinks this game is fun
For those still cheering for the Cubbies
After all these years
I am here
For every parent, every child
Playing catch out in the yard
For every guy whose mother threw away
That box of baseball cards
Who thinks back on their favorite team
And will not fight a tear
I am here Chorus

For those who’ll try to stretch
A single to a double every time
For every sacrifice and squeeze play
When the game is on the line
For every ten year old who faces
Their first curve ball without fear
I am here
For every creaking joint and muscle
On your hometown senior league
For every fifty year old dreamer
Who fights through the fatigue
Whose only satisfaction is
One good swing and a beer
I am here Chorus

I wish I could tell every story
I wish that I knew every name
Of every coach and comrade
Who made me love this game
Every teammate, each opponent
I want to tell them all
This is your Hall
For every pickup game and sandlot
In every little town
For every street in every city
Where stickball still is found
For every 6 or 86 year old
Still swinging for the wall
This is your Hall Chorus

Vienna, VA Mayday 2001

©2001 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP)