Playing ball in Elmhurst during the 1960s was a great leveler, primarily because the playing fields lacked prestige. Nobody was too little, too girly, too nerdy to play on the little patches of grass surrounding our houses.

In our backyard, a run from home plate to second base was a sprint under the clothesline to the back stoop. Rounding third was a run past the strawberry plants, rhubarb and chive plants.

Things changed as my older brother showed real talent for the sport and my younger brother showed genuine skill for all things teamcentric. No question but they both were destined for broader fields and greater challenge.

But, they still let me play baseball with them on our home field. I was the one who quit as a preteener. Imagining a greener pasture, I suppose; or needing to find one.