I dream of the summer of ’61 when Roger Maris was engaged in his assault on the Babe’s record and for some uncanny reason I became the King of The Home Run in an Atlantic City half ball league. We played this most enjoyable of all the street games with a cut in two star ball, pimple ball or the rare pink ball.
Fast pitch or underhand lob, it didn’t make a difference. The excitement was always there.
I couldn’t hit squat on a regular diamond but half ball was my ticket to fame. Geez!
I’m now living in Southern Cal and as soon as I’m done writing this note, I’m going out to the garage, cut off a broom handle and slice a few tennis balls. I’m going to show my seventeen year old surfer the real sport of summer.