Editorial August 18, 1997 Issue

How do we measure success?

William E. Moody

I WAS thirteen at the time. It was one of those hazy afternoons when the sun seems to stand at the center of everything. Deep-South summers. Add boys and baseball. You could almost slice the thick humid air with a knife. And even though the temperature always hovered in the 90s, I don't think we ever cared how hot it was when we were out on the field.

On the day I'm remembering, it was probably about the fourth inning of the game, and the visiting team from another playground in the city's summer league was ahead by only a run. We had one runner on first base. It was my turn at bat.

When the pitch came, I could see it was right where I wanted it. A looping "fast" ball (as fast as another thirteen-year-old could throw it) about chest high. And when the bat connected, there couldn't have been a sweeter sound.

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