Take Me Out To The Ballgame

The urchins were startled. "Hey, let's go outside and play some baseball," I said.

Outside? Are you kidding me? Inside, the two 8-year-old boys have an Xbox, iPads and personal computers at the ready. Outside?

So I dragged them down to the ball field.

"I need a helmet," one wailed. "Where're the helmets?"

"And what about a heart-guard?" the other one said. "Mom says I have to get a heart-guard before I can play."

"We're just going to practice," I replied. "No danger. Let's just throw the ball around and hit a few."

The boys looked confused.

"But we need helmets!"

The year was 1957, and two Central Nassau little league teams were on the field. There were no helmets. No heart-guards. Just a dusty field with dirty bases and a coach who sat on a splintered bench drinking beer.

I was 7 years old. Billy Weir was on the mound. I was at the plate. He threw; I swung the bat. The ball rocketed into left field. My first hit ever. I'll never forget it.

"OK, I'll hit you guys some grounders, and you throw the ball home. Got it?"

The boys looked even more confused.

"What happens if the ball hits me?" the smarter one asked.

"Pain," I said. "But that's why you have a glove. You catch the ball in the glove, and that protects you."

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