When I was in jr. high, maybe 10 or so, we got to watch the High School kids play baseball because the field bordered our playground. I remember those of us boys who liked baseball would run up to the outfield fence and watch the games in the afternoons.
The high school guys looked like giants. They didn't have the cheap t-shirt jerseys and snap-on caps we had in our little league games. They wore real jerseys and bright stainless pants with stitched on logos and numbers, fitted caps and gloves big enough to hold our heads. I wanted to be one of those guys someday, they were something to aspire to for some silly reason.
I remember there was speedy outfielder with the number 22 stitched on his back, and he was always there every game running down fly-balls and stealing bases. I wanted to be number 22 because I thought I could be like him, and I already had enough baseball-superstition in my heart to think that if I was number 22 I could play like him.
I wore the number 22 in every sport from then on, and eventually being caught up with the drama of the teenage years, I forgot how I dreamed one day of playing baseball in high school. I only came to to the realization about 6 years later. While warming up with my teammates for a game, I saw a bunch of kids lined up at the outfield wall. Their hands and faces pressing up against the fence just staring at us like we were someone important. I realized how things had changed, how I used to be like them, marveling at us.
Us players on the field were only kids too, we had our own problems, worries, fears, and in turn were in awe of the college boys and professional athletes we tried to imitate. But I felt good, I was happy to understand that I had a goal and matched it, without ever even noticing.
