One late night in Chicago I break into Wrigley Field
It’s early spring the season isn’t starting for a week
It’s a little after midnight I bin playing down the street
At an open mic at a little bar, just under the L tracks
I’d noticed for a couple weeks they bin doin’ some work on the ballpark
They got scaffolding up
I climb in
I go check out the bat rack and I straighten out my hat
Sit down on the bench where Fergie Jenkins sat
Walk slowly to the mound, where I stretch and then I glide
Fire a couple high and tight and then strike out the side
I step to the plate, take a couple low, swing with all my might, watch it go
Over the wall
Tonight I got the ballpark
Tonight I got the ballpark
Tonight I got the ballpark
All to myself
I run in the outfield grass like Moe, Curly and Larry
Announce a couple innings from the press box just me--
And Harry Caray
I make a leaping catch against the ivy-covered wall
The early season ivy is a cushion to my fall
I trot in from the warning track, my cap it tips the crowd
Float across the infield, it’s really getting loud
I race toward third, turn on a dime, dig for home, headfirst slide
Sandberg in his prime
Tonight I got the ballpark
Tonight I got the ballpark
Tonight I got the ballpark
All to myself
