It is 1959 and we are going nuts. The Sox have won the pennant and the night is alive with noise. Baseball holds a special place for many of us—and long has.
When baseball was relatively new, poet Walt Whitman observed, “I see great things in baseball. It's our game—the American game.”
I recently drove around for a long time looking for what was once a familiar city sight: A school wall with a “strike zone” painted or chalked onto it. There was a time when no self-respecting school wall would be without one. You just don’t see that much anymore.
My school was LaSalle, a public school; and our “strike zone” was chalked on the north wall, facing a playground in Old Town.
Standing there against the school’s unmarked brick wall, as I always do when fall is about to begin and the World Series about to start, it is impossible for me not to be touched by memories.
One rushes back.