Micro Mike

They called him Micro Mike,

though he stood small in the light

A little football player with a fire in his stride

He was faster than the whistle,

gone before you could blink

Then he'd fold a bigger runner down

before you'd time to think

Oh, Micro Mike,

you were lightning in the dust

Making tackle after tackle,

doing what you had to do

But the fastest feet grow tired

when the hard days call them home

And you quit beneath the Friday lights

to give somebody a hand

He ran track in the morning,

cross country in the rain

Chasing down the long road through the cold and open plain

He'd search the creek beds after,

with a pocket full of hope

Looking for

a little jewel

in the gravel and the coal

He never lasted long

beneath those stadium lights

But he left a mark in every game,

and every quiet night

Now the field goes on without him,

and the old scoreboard stays dark

But somewhere down a country road,

he's still outrunning the dark

Oh, Micro Mike,

you were lightning in the dust

Small enough to miss at first,

too quick for anyone to catch

You traded cleats for working hands,

and gave the game away

Still the jewels and running trails

remember how you played

They called him Micro Mike,

and the name still sounds like home

A little flash of summer rain,

then gone

and moving on