When You Were a Boy

by Edwin L. Sabin

Blindly you struck, and the condemnations of your mentors squatting anear raked you fore and aft.

Quite unexpectedly you hit it. You did not know where it went, but you scudded for first.

“Second! Second!” gesticulating frantically, bawled all your companions, coaching you onward.

“Second! Second!” bawled with equal fervor your opponents, coaching the fielder.

You grabbed off your cap,—it is strange how much faster a boy can run when thus assisted,—and madly dug for second. Praise be! There you were, beating the ball, which appeared from a mysterious somewhere, by a hair’s-breadth.

You stuck to second, meanwhile dancing and prancing to tantalize the pitcher, until another hit forwarded you to third, for which you slid, not because it was absolutely necessary to slide, but because the slide was a part of the game.

Here, at third, while you were dreaming of the home slab, and the honor of admonishing, hoarsely, for the information of the world, “Tally me!” Red, the ruthless, abruptly gave you a shove, hurling you from position.

“Quick, Doc!” he cried.

Doc responded with the ball.

“Out!” decreed the umpire.