My mom did everything she could think of to get me into the car on that warm summer afternoon 20 years ago. She just wouldn’t take no for an answer. And I’ll be grateful for that as long as I live.
I almost quit the game of baseball a while back. Not a lot of people know that. I don’t talk about it much. But it’s totally true. This was years ago, and it probably wasn’t the best-thought-out plan in the world, but I absolutely almost quit. I was only seven at the time, but that doesn’t mean it was just one of those silly things that kids sometimes do. This was serious. I wasn’t joking around.
I was playing Little League ball in Agoura, California, not too far from L.A. And by that point I’d gotten to the level where coaches would pitch half the game and then the kids would pitch the other half. I had always been pretty good at baseball before that — which really just meant that I could hit the ball in fair territory off a tee, would run to the right bases, and could catch the ball if it was hit my way. I absolutely loved the sport.