I feel a little bit like Shoeless Joe Jackson myself these days. There was a time when you couldn’t drive through a neighborhood and not find a father and son out "whipping the pill."  Growing up with my three brothers, we had a hall closet where all our athletic gear was stored. Basically, it contained 3 things - a baseball, a football and a basketball. Of course, there were gloves, bats, and maybe the odd tennis racket in the closet, too, but hours of enjoyment and entertainment could and were had with one of the balls, especially the baseball.

     For the majority of the year, baseball was the sport. Every recess at school, every afternoon, and every weekend day was spent playing baseball. I can remember Saturdays where a group of us would just gather at a vacant field in the town of Warsaw and play all day. The only break would be when one of our mothers would call us in to feed us all a quick sandwich. No need for carpools, we’d ride our bikes there. No need for uniforms, since we’d play as "shirts and skins." And no trophies needed, since we all knew and accepted who the better players were and we knew with practice we could improve.

     And our equipment? Many times we felt lucky to have one ball even if it was wrapped with electrical tape to keep it from unwinding. Our bats invariably were broken and had been mended and made playable with brads and the indispensable cure-all, electrical tape. Our gloves were soft and pliable due to our constant applications of saddle soap and our fist pounding to get the pocket just right.

     These days when I do see a father and son playing catch it evokes many fond memories, even the ones involving broken windows!