Watching the World Series and rooting for the American League, I’m reminded of how, growing up, I looked forward to every little league game. I guess everyone who has ever felt the electricity of a perfect swing connecting at just the right spot with a pitch that was meant for it has some dream of Bambino-style glory in the big leagues.

Watching the World Series and rooting for the American League, I’m reminded of how, growing up, I looked forward to every little league game. I guess everyone who has ever felt the electricity of a perfect swing connecting at just the right spot with a pitch that was meant for it has some dream of Bambino-style glory in the big leagues.


I would also guess that a lot of the people who have felt that sweet sensation could tell you the moment when that dream died, too. When my parents told me they planned to home-school me for high school, I knew any aspirations of professional ball playing were struck out.


In high school, other boyish pursuits, like learning guitar and martial arts, replaced my fever for our national pastime. I would throw the ball around with friends occasionally, but not enough people in my social circle were interested in the sport to pick up a game.


Another sensation that never faded, though, is the memory of every time I was hit with a baseball. Although being hit with a pitch is obviously the most common way, years of infield and outfield play left me with no shortage of brutalities from a batter’s ball, either.


It’s funny how when you wake up from being unconscious after making a great save with your forehead, the first thing you think about really is the ball, even if your concerned mother is staring back at you.


After graduating from college, I married a woman whose mother is from Argentina, and her brothers got me interested in a game that is much easier to play with three, two or even one person — soccer. Having only a couple of years experience shoving around a big, soft ball with my feet, I usually feel outshined during pickup games with our friends.


The only position I get lots of compliments in is goalkeeper. "You’re fearless," my teammates exclaim. "I could never get in front of the ball like that." I just smile and hope no one else asks to be goalie, so I can keep catching my breath. You sure run a lot more than 90 feet in this game.



Happy birthday Sunday to Jonathan Cannon, Debbie Larkin Roberts, Cathy Clinton, Leona Irby, Linda Jay, Kathy Daniel, Kenneth Harvey, Rita Jones, R.L. Knight Jr., Jean Shellenberger, Jason Watson and Jake Davis, all of Sherman; Zachary Bellows, Charles Sneed and Michael Blanton, all of Denison; Angie Schnitker of Pottsboro; Abigail Montgomery of Luella; Judy Jackson Scott of Lake Jackson; Jim Conley of Sanger; Toyia Jackson of Lubbock; Valerie Howell of DeSoto; Alvin Brown Jr. of Austin; Karen Rich of Sadler.


Happy anniversary Sunday to Jesse B. and Ruth Ann Ingram of Sherman, 57 years; Morgan and Velma Brown of Sherman, 51 years.