I sit in our first-base dugout preparing to play another no-name team in a no-name league wearing another no-name jersey in a stadium fittingly known as The Clink. The mid-west heat rises with the mid-day sun and our clubhouse manager limps out to the mound to throw batting practice in denim jeans, a full-sleeved western button-down shirt, dinner plate-sized belt buckle, black cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat—a getup I have yet to see him skip (or wash) all summer long.
The Texas limp is from a near-death experience ending with a gunshot.
The belt buckle is from a similar story.