It was a stinking hot August day in Dekalb, Illinois. The
six of us were sitting in the dusty grass up the left field line just behind the bullpen. I had my mask and helmet off and was working at a sore
spot where the buckle of my chest protector dug into my side. Assistant coach
Pete was standing over us, casually leaning the mid-part of his thigh against a
Fungo bat to steady himself. Three pitchers sipped at their water jugs while
three catchers sat or lay trying to coax some of the dead air into cooling them
off.
You could hear the corn rustling against the right field
fence, the aluminum bleachers ringing with the impact of batting practice
across the field. Pete was slacking just a bit, killing time between drills. He
was staring off into the distance, trying to catch a glimpse of head coach Joe “Spanky”
MacFarland, to trade some nod or hand signal about what to do next with his
charges. Summer baseball camp at Northern Illinois University in a nutshell. I
was maybe 13.