I think I was in the third grade when it happened. On the grassy area between the cafeteria and the main hall there were no trees to protect you from the glare of the South Carolina sun. Myself and at least two others were unperturbed by this susceptibility, however, when we gathered the ingredients for a game of baseball. I can’t remember now if we had an actual bat, gloves, and ball – but I am certain we had a projectile and something to hit it with.

The game was about as much as you could ask from a group of sweating kids who were sure they were being scouted for the Atlanta Braves. There was trash talking, there was base stealing, and there were several wild swings that came nowhere close to touching the ball.

When it was my turn to play catcher I squatted behind the ‘plate’ with a giddy excitement. A friend of mine was up to bat, and neither of us saw a problem with his standing so close to me that his knees could rest on my shoulders.

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