It was a father-son game at a picnic with my Little League team. I was about 10. I was playing catcher for the first … and last … time in my life. Up to the plate strolled my dad, who at that time would have been in his early 50s, his hair silver, his waist a little bit thicker than it had ever been. You can guess my prayer. The prayer of every child: “Oh, God, I hope he doesn’t embarrass me.” On the mound stood some hotshot teenager. I’m guessi…
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