My True Baseball Story of 1959-61

I was always athletic in my school days. From 8-17 yrs old I played baseball, volleyball, basketball and soccer (tho I hated soccer so much I quit and never watch it). When I was 9, I was living in a foster home in Kearns, Utah. I remember days of playing baseball in a vacant lot on the corner. It was serious business then for some reason; perhaps we were so young and happy to get out of our miserable homes and release mighty tension that we played hard and only to win. It was never a matter of playing for the sake of the game; it was playing to win the game. I never understood the fierceness in their hearts as I was just happy to be out of the house and away from the evil that dwelled there. But, there was no room for my glee and at first I was last to be chosen for a team. They didn't "want no smiling faces" I was told. They didn't "want no girl", especially one who'd "never played before" and I should sit on the boulder and watch.
Well, if I didn't play I had to go back to hell, er, home so I took their verbal swipes, dodged tossed mitts my way and missed swings til my arms burned. It didn't take long, thankfully, before I caught on. The smile went off, the shoes dug and swiped at the dirt, the legs took flight and the body slid into home. By the end of that summer I was often team captain. I once picked a girl but she couldn't throw to the pitcher's mound so I made her bat girl... a job she relished, by the way.
The next summer we played with such intensity we would draw a neighborhood crowd. Boulders were dragged around and placed for the curious. A couple of times local gangs dropped by to watch and not once ragged on us or interfered. I think they understood our "need". The skinned knees, elbows and chins were signs of greatness. Even with the victory we gruffly slapped each other on the arm. Lordy, sometimes I wanted to just hug 'em but I would have been decked! I was, after all, a ball player. The 3rd and final summer was cut short. I had to miss a game and Harold Pearce played for me. He dropped dead at age 11,on first base. An aneurysm.
We tried to play one more game for Harold but in the first few minutes our childhood caught up with us and we all cried. Like babies we wept for our fallen teammate. He was the strongest voice urging us to win, win. And we were spent.
Parents got the notion that somehow Harold died because of our games, we were too intense. I had the notion all along that had I been there he wouldn't have played that day and maybe he would have been okay. I now know that was wrong; it was inevitable. A neighbor brought a tractor and pushed tree branches and rocks all over the field. Our season was over.
But I learned then I could be tough if I had to. I could survive this home and somehow get out. I learned that winning isn't everything. I learned that playing was everything; Harold never got a chance to learn that. Poor Harold.