Crash Davis couldn’t do anything but play baseball.
With a name like that, what else could he do?
Quick – name all the baseball players you know
named Milton. (You get my point, I’m sure.)
Twenty years after Crash and company graced the
silver screen, I stood on the deck above the first base
grandstand in the house that the movie helped to build
and picked up the foul ball that fell at my feet.
The ball was foul, product of bad swing. Only a few
folks around us sharing in Clergy Appreciation Night
sponsored by a local funeral home – even noticed.
There was no great story attached except for this:
For the first time in my life, I got a baseball at a game.
I came home with a token of the game I love and
cannot play. I wasn’t even breathing through my
eyelids. Good times never seemed so good.