Summertime mornings I’d whip a rubber ball against our schoolyard brick wall, inventing bottom-of-the-ninth-inning cliff-hangers. In each one, my slingshot throw from centerfield beat any New York ...

"It's your glove, your baseball glove. It's got a soul, a memory all its own, and a future that never fades because it has never let go of the grasp the past has on you ... " — Journalist Mike ...