Transcribed By: Michael T. Balonek



My helmet is equipped with a tiny face mask.



What it possibly could protect, I do not know.



The other guys on the team like to make fun of my little shoulder pads,



And also like to hide my special shoe that I made to kick in the snow.



People think it's so easy to kick a field goal from the 30 yard line,



But they forget to add 7 yards for the snap and ten more 'cause the goal

posts are pushed way back.



In 1974, the uprights were right on the goal lines, but some of the

players were running into them and getting hurt.



So screw the kicker.



Who cares about the kicker?







But I kick that ball,



And I pray it goes straight,



If it does, the coach says, "Good Job, Number 8."



He doesn't even know my name,



It's Andre Christochovitchlalinsky, Jr.



But that's the life I live,



The lonesome kicker.







Kick-offs can be so very scary,



Especially if the returner breaks right through,



And I'm the only guy on the playing field left to tackle him.



I don't want to get hurt,



So I pretend to tie my shoe.



Once again, I'm ignored by my teammates and all my coaches.



"Go back where you came from!" screamed 70 million fans.



Well I know I could win their love back by catching a winning touchdown,



But unfortunately, I was born with these very small hands.







Well, I hope the camera's don't come in too close,



'Cause they might see the tears in my eyes,



As I sit on this bench made of cold, hard wood,



And the splinters go deep in my thighs.



Oh, the towel-boy snickers when he walks by,



The lonesome kicker.







Another blocked kick



And everybody blames me



But it was the left guard



Who didn't pick-off his

man!



Oh, why can't they see?







In my home country, I could've been a minor-league soccer player,



But I came to America seeking fortune, and seeking fame.



I didn't realize that if I shanked one and blew the point spread,



Some drunk guys would push me into their Hibachi after the game.







So I go home at night, 'cause I never get invited to go drinking with

the other guys,



And I sit on a chair and soak my feet,



As I eat a plate of cold french-fries,



And my wife's out with a quote-unquote "friend",



And my son can't look me in the eye.



Well that's the life I live,



The lonesome kicker.



Kickin' for you...



They took my snow shoe...



They're going for....two.......



Ooh, ooh