When the sun began to ride high in the August sky
And the days grew longer, and longer and longer,
The schoolage boys of Scranton's West Side
Began to emerge from the catacombs beneath the city.

Sixteen tons and another day's work.

With faces black as the eyes of a newborn foal
They crawled out of the mines and into the light,
And pick-axes and pitchforks traded for pigskins
Lay placid on sparsely filled lawns around the city.

And kids were kids again.

They ran and played and cried and bled,
Without the adult responsibilities
Of having to help provide for the family,
Wearing smiles as large as the pride in their homes.

And around the city belts would tighten.

Calloused hands gripped oblong brown balls,
And arms strengthened hefting anthracite ore
Heaved a pass a mile into waiting hands with
Skin as tough as the leather of the ball itself.

And a voice made rough by Black Lung barked out signals.

They waged a three month battle for their dreams, against life,
Against growing up, and growing old. And when the stadium lights
Finally went out on their dreams, tools were retrieved and
They descended once again to a life in the darkness of the mines.

Theirs' was a generation not beat up, not beat down. . .just beat.