Woody, my friend and catcher on our baseball team, heard the Roger Miller tune "Engine Engine Number 9" and had the inspiration to write this song. The opening line became; "Roger, Roger number 9, headin' down the third base line" and the rest was perspiration. Nine days later we had the lyric, told mostly from Roger's forlorn perspective of the scintillating Summer of 1961 when we were 12 year olds and just before girls would complicate and confuse our lives.
Vintage baseball fans will catch many references to players and from the 1920s to the 2020s; the shortstop/announcer, the manager, the roommate, the bar owners son and orphanage boy from Baltimore, the former commissioner and ghost writer, recent peds users and pretenders to the throne, a white sox pitcher, the most famous Negro league pitcher, the fateful Oriole pitcher, and the grateful fan who caught the ball and sold it to pay for his honeymoon and newly wedded life.
The choice of A minor for the second chord switched the train off Miller's upbeat pop track and onto Maris's somber rail into baseball history. The passengers would number multi agenda miscreants and unlikely principled players and participants. All board!
Lyrics
The Ballad of 1961: roger maris and mickey mantle
Roger, Roger, number nine
Headin’ down the third base line
Steppin’ into immortality
Danger, danger, number three
Careful if you shake that tree
Young and old may disagree
Reluctant hero born in Fargo
Fame and fortune not your cargo
You could say, you just came to play
Cold in April, you start slowly
Scooter splits to eat Cannoli
The Major orders you the third to bat
Your pal Mickey backs you up
Took your place at runner-up
Twenty-seven twenty-eight and twenty-nine
Barry’s numbers don’t mean shit
Mark McGwire did admit
Sosa Sammy hangs in halls of shame
Sorry Roger, fans got sore
They loved that Keed from Baltimore
Pierce Chicago you hit for-ty–se-ven, for-ty-eight
Lost some hair, brushed off attacks
Forty-nine, fifty, comin’ back
Look out Georgie, here I come
No asterisk will harm your glory
Frick’s a dick we know his story
And all those Home Runs back in ‘61
One on one with Tracy Stallard
One more pitch will end this ballad
Holy Cow, it’s deep to right!
Fifty-nine sixty, sal durante
Raised you Babe, it’s up the ante
Now you’re done, you’ve hit ‘61
Reluctant hero born in Fargo
Fame and fortune not your cargo
You could say, you just came to…….
“Don’t Look Back” someone’s gainin’
Record books are always changin’
But we still have the summer of ‘61
copyright 8/11/2020 raymond henry wood and paul shire colarusso