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“Dad, Dad! I caught a ball! I caught a foul ball!” I blurted out when we got back to our section.
I ran back to the bleachers where Mom and Dad were sitting to show him my ball.
“Way to go! Let me see it!” he beamed.
I handed it to him.
He gripped it and rolled it over, examining it, and smiling. Then he handed it back and ruffled my hair.
My insides swelled with prideful cartwheels. It was the first time I’d felt like I had done something Dad was proud of. The only thing that could have been better was if my favorite player, Pete Rose, had hit the ball. He held the record for most career hits at the time, beating out Ty Cobb, Stan Musial, and Hank Aaron. He was something else.
“Batter, batter, batter, batter. Swing!”
“Can’t hit. Can’t hit. Can’t hit.”
I played Little League baseball at age 12 for the First National Bank team coached by my dad. I was...
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