A lovely, yet heart-wrenching memoir, of the joys of summer at age 11
One of the great regrets of becoming an adult is that it’s not appropriate for me to play baseball anymore. I’m not talking softball, with that oversize gob of a ball, but honest-to-goodness hardball. I love the way it sounds when you catch a well-thrown hardball in the web of your mitt. I mean, throughout my childhood, they taught me how to throw, catch, bat, and slide, and man, was I good at it! At 12, I led my Little League in home runs! But then you grow up, and all those skills are as useless as an appendix.
You meet a woman, and you think, “Wow, she’s cute. If only she could play catch with me….”
The summer I was seven was as perfect as sunlight shining through a butterfly’s wings. There were blue skies, warm weather, and lots of Little League baseball played in black t-shirts with BEAVERS…
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