In our spare bedroom I keep a baseball in a display case. It isn’t a homerun ball from a MLB game. It isn’t even a foul ball from a MLB game. It is a homerun ball from a little league baseball game in the mid 80’s. I still remember the pitch (a failed attempt at a slider that hung just over the middle of the plate). As I swung at the pitch I dropped my left shoulder (even though I knew better) and popped the ball high into the air, but the hit was just long enough to clear the fence. I also remember where the ball went out of the park (just to the right of a big tree outside the fence in right field) and my dad retrieving the ball for safe keeping. We spent many afternoons practicing baseball and learning the rules of the game. We learned how to throw and how to hit (even though I didn’t learn that part too well) and how catch. We learned strategies for winning, and we learned the correct way to play a game. Our coaches taught us how to be orthodox, American baseball players. And, some