The summer I played in the Little League World Series was a bright, beautiful summer, the longest and shortest and best of my life. I was twelve years old, everything was right, and the promise of what was ahead lay fecund with possibility. The only important decision I had to make was whether I wanted to be a professional baseball or football player. And maybe which girl I liked.
I remember the sun straight on top of us, the scent of oleanders and dirt and cut grass. Our hats lined white with peaks and valleys of sweat. White pants with rips and stains of brown and green.