I recently had a link forwarded to me that took me back to the sandlot.
I was a crafty southpaw and slap hitter as a youngster, far earlier than anybody should have carried either of those tags. The decision was made that contact was better than the big fly, hence I didn’t make full use of my ass-ets. I hit well, but the glory of the scoreboard-shattering blast eluded me.
On the mound, I never learned to harness the power that laid in what would later be dubbed Quad-zilla. I never found that sweet spot between power pitching and control and, in my youth, you could still get people to chase if you mixed things up … although drilling a few more batters might have been good for releasing frustrations.
Regardless, I wasn’t fleet of foot. I wasn’t the statuesque portrait of a ballplayer. I wasn’t, well, I just wasn’t … but the combination of being a lefty and this means that perhaps I should have kept going.
It’s not too late, is it?