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Released in 2001 on Major League Records

Words and music by Howie Newman

(c) 2001 Howie Newman  Chin Music (BMI)


Now we’ve got artificial flavors and artificial snow

Imitation mayonnaise, false teeth and you know

You’ve got artificial colors in your food and for your hair

But that artificial grass is just too much for me to bear


If Abner Doubleday was alive, he’d be aghast

If he went into a baseball game

And didn’t see no grass

Just a big green carpet with some fancy white lines

A little bit of dirt and those metric signs



1. AstroTurf

2. Utility Infielder Blues

3. Wait Until Next Year

4. Traded

5. Blasted in the Bleachers (live version)

AstroTurf, AstroTurf

What have they done with ol’ Mother Earth?

I don’t want nothin’ ’neath my feet that a horse can’t eat. So take it away


It all began in Houston where they play the game indoors

They built a big domed stadium but one of its flaws was the grass just wouldn’t grow

Where the sun refused to shine so they ripped it out and put in the artificial kind


Play me or trade me, Don’t care how much you paid me

I’m tired of getting splinters And thinking ’bout my winters

I’ve only been up three times since June

I can still swing the bat and I’m quick as a cat

I can make that double play, so what do you say

Have a little heart and give me a start real soon


I wanna spit on the field and argue with the umpires

Chase after balls and run into walls. Wanna get my uniform full of dirt

And get a standing ovation when I get hurt


I wanna wear sunglasses, Use rosin and pine tar

Dive on the ground, have meetings on the mound

Throw my helmet like the superstars do and hold up the game while I tie my shoe


And I swear I ain’t lyin’ when I say I ain’t afraid of Nolan Ryan

Lefties, righties, y’know that I can hit them all. I’m leaning on these dugout steps

Just waiting for your call

I’m gonna have to learn how to knit if you keep making me sit


This was the best damn team that I ever did see

It had strength up the middle, it had power and speed

Most of the season they could do no wrong But when October rolled around

It was the same old song


Wait until next year, wait until next year. Exactly what went wrong is all too clear

So near and so far, lose but no cigar

It’s a long, long way ’til opening day And the winter’s getting near

Have another beer and wait until next year


We all thought it was a piece of cake, that 12-game lead at the All-Star break

But the pitching was lousy and the hitting got worse and the next thing I knew

We were out of first


The clouts of the summer became the outs of the fall

That baseball team made fools of us all

They squandered that lead and it didn’t take long

And October arrived with the same old song


Traded, my uniform’s hardly faded

Wish I could have made it Stayin’ right here


Clean out my closet And get my security deposit

Go and drown my sorrows in a mug of beer


I’d love to come to Boston And play for Mr. Yawkey

Montreal’s real nice, I’d even take Milwaukee


But six months in Philly, That’s not what I bargained for

I guess it could’ve been worse, It could have been Cleveland or Baltimore


When your arm goes bad Ain’t nothin’ you can do

When your fastball ain’t fast And your screwball won’t screw


Walkin’ down to Jersey Street on a scorching summer day
Heading off to Fenway Park, that’s where the Red Sox play
The clock in Kenmore Square says almost 2
We’re gonna sit way out in center field and this is what we’ll do 

Let’s go get blasted in the bleachers, act insane
The sun, some beer and all those people, we can even watch the game
I don’t need no runs or hits, just a six pack of Schlitz
Win or lose, we’ll feel the same. It’s only a game


The stands are filling up and baby so am I

The batter hits a grounder but I’m flying high

There’s a double play, a stolen base, a fastball up and in

And the batter he breaks his bat. I’ll drink to that


The pitcher’s warming up and baby, I am too

The batter loosens up and man, that’s just what I do

There’s a mighty swing, a long fly ball, a home run

As he rounds the bases, he tips his hat. I’ll drink to that

Don’t say we ain’t good fans, we even clean up our cans

When the seventh inning stretch comes, we try to stand up

We’re always nice and friendly and never throw our cups


The bases are loaded and so am I. There’s a screamin’ line drive and I can hear it cry

There’s a close play out at third and the coach jumps up and down

And yells like a spoiled brat. I’ll drink to that


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