It was the middle of the summer and another season of baseball was upon us. The heat was scorching the fields and players were hitting runs for their teams, it was always my favorite time of the year. I knew in my heart I would never forget those times in the summers playing baseball with the local kids around our neighborhood.

My father bought me my first baseball bat on my birthday. I had waited four long years to get one, my father always told me how the bills comes first before anything else in our lives, but it never stopped me from asking him.

I was a young boy and I wanted nothing more then a baseball bat, I was tired of paying 25 cents for balls and not able to hit any.

I was sporting around a 1920’s baseball glove, it was bigger then me. It had holes and it smelt like milk over turning in the heat. It once belonged to my father, and to my brothers. So it had a long history of abuse; but now I had something on my own a new baseball bat, something with greater meaning then honoring the past.