Back in the days of Willie Mays, the Duke, and the Splendid Splinter, it was rare to find a boy without a ball, even in the dead of winter. Thoughts of Spring ball were never far off.

Gloves were saddle-soaped, wrapped about a Spalding, 'tween fingers and thumb, promoting a catch-all pocket. Mine was autographed by "Bullet Bob" Feller, the fastest fast baller ever. His pitch, even out-sped a speeding motorcycle doing eighty-six miles per hour, with a ten-foot head start. He was so quick, they believed him to be the first hurler to break the sound barrier of baseball which was the century mark in the nineteen-fifties. One-hundred miles per hour.

Another pitcher soon after threw as fast, but he knew not where his pitch was going, prompting Casey Stengel to say, " "I would not admire hitting against Ryne Duren because if he ever hit you in the head, you might be in the past tense." It was reported he wore glasses as thick as coke bottles.

Bats were made of ash, hickory, and maple. Those I held were always emblazoned "Louisville Slugger" by Hillerich & Bradsby Co., though "Rajah" Maris swung a thirty-one-inch Spalding. He was part of the parcel of Murderer's Row, Act Two, inclusive of Mickey Mantle, Bill Skowron and Yogi Berra. Collectively, they hit two-hundred and seven home runs in nineteen-sixty-one. That Yankee team, for the year, hit two-hundred and forty dingers.

Act One is dated nineteen-eighteen and included The Babe, Frank Baker, and Wally Pipp, who hit forty-five, four-baggers. Remember, this was in the dead-ball era.

My friends of the fifties and sixties were forever with a ball-in-hand. If we couldn't find eighteen, we sawed off a broomstick, found a pinkie-ball, and played stickball in the streets. When we got done, the fire hydrants were turned on and we ran bare foot in their streams.

If we had less, we substituted leather with a tennis ball and rebounded it towards each other off a step. Electrical wires provided fly balls where if a ball ricocheted off a wire and was not caught it was a round-tripper. We also played wall ball, whiffle ball, and home-run derby. We were always busy, dreamin' the day would come when we would become the Boys of Summer, written by Roger Kahn.

Today, "The Boys" are all gone. Sandlots are over-grown; outfield fences are missing knotholes. Canvas bases are pre-set in the ground, and dugouts have barriers for protection, of who knows who, for all the lads missing are playing Nintendo or whatever, somewhere in a basement.

I can only pray that when the good Lord resurrects me, he does so on a baseball diamond, with rosin bags, plugs of chaw, and players playing pepper with skills as those premiered in "Field of Dreams."