"We need some ballplayers," said the clown with the voice of a man who had taken too many breaks from chugging bourbon to chainsmoke. He further taunted, "High and dry." At this point, my dad shoved two dollars my way and nudged me toward the disinterested teenager holding three softballs. I was probably ten or eleven and confident in my lot as the star first baseman of the Stonegate Spikes who had recently finished first in the Northside YMCA's coach pitch division. It was a challenge I was ready to take.
Staring down the bullseye that seemed so close, I got into the pitching stance I intended to use the next year. The angry old clown seemed to be unaware of my arrival, and I pounced. The ball whizzed past the big red dot. Then it came.