I Played baseball until I graduated from high school. Each spring, I gathered with a group of my friends to practice on a dusty field. I wish there had been a counter on my bat because I must have swung that Louisville Slugger at least a million times.

Baseball is a game of hurry up and wait, but it resonated with me because I came to be good at it.

The field behind on which we played was behind the grammar school. It was red clay. During the long dry days of summer, it often got dusty. Stealing bases and sliding on that field changed the color of uniforms from light slate to sepia.

Even though that was sixty years ago, I can close my eyes and smell the leather of my old glove.

I wasn't much of a long-ball hitter, but I was fast enough to get a lot of singles and doubles.

After little league, I moved up to the pony league where the competition was much stiffer. The guys I played against were often very good. Dreams of making it to the "bigs" kept young men on their toes. They practiced hard, even during the offseason.

I remember the last pony-league game I played. It was an Allstars game, and I was the starting catcher. Since it was the final game of the season, the coach told us all that he planned to play everyone in the dugout.

I started the game and batted sixth in the rotation. I started off the second inning. The first pitch was a fastball on the outside corner. My swing was right out of the training manual. The ball sailed over the center-field fence.

Halfway through the game, I came up to bat for the last time of my career. The same pitcher threw the same pitch. Again, I knocked the ball out of the park. I heard a mother from the opposing teams say, "Oh no! Not again!"

We won that game by a half a dozen runs. It was a few moments of my life that I will always remember.

Another picture I found this week was one I don't think I've ever seen. I'm on the second row in the center of the picture.