One of the first video of tapes of me that exists is this scene . . . it was the front yard of my parent’s house. I was tiny, maybe 3 years old. I wore cowboy boots, shorts, and a baseball cap (I guess I have always been aesthetically challenged). There was a miniature baseball mitt on my left hand.
My shoulders were slumped over and my knees bent, as I crouched waiting for baseballs to be hit my way. My next door neighbor and lifelong friend, Boone Benton (he is six years older than I am), did the hitting. Though I was thrilled with life at that exact moment, there were no smiles. I was the definition of focused intensity, at least for a 3-year old in cowboy boots and shorts.
Cards on the table; most of the balls went around my glove and through my legs, but I clearly loved it nonetheless. I would chase the ball down from behind me and throw it back to Boone with every bit of strength I could muster up. I didn’t mug for the camera. I just went about the business of honing the skills of a middle infielder.
The video is grainy and jumpy, but my memory is not.
Thinking of that video, two things come to mind about my youth. The first is superficial, while the second has impacted my life for the good well beyond my temporal comprehension. [Read more…]
