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City life, for kids, before the onslaught of helicopter parents and mandatory parental involvement in every aspect of growing up.  We played baseball, no umpires, the bases pieces of cardboard, scratched in dirt, or chalked on the pavement.  Four neighborhoods abutted each other.  We, the children of the game, formed teams, formed an impromptu “league”.  On one of these occasions when a game was “scheduled” team A came up short of the mandatory nine.  Team B would allow one of its players to play for team A.  The proof that this did not hurt team A’s chances of winning became evident the day Billie, (we’ll call her Billy to protect the legend), came to bat in the last inning and singled home the winning run for team A.

After the game Billie walked home with the rest of our team.  She looked a bit sheepish and we did sort of give her the business.  We all knew it didn’t matter which team you played for because the game demanded you play your best and hold your head high in both victory and defeat.

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