It was the summer of 1962, when space travel was just beginning, the United States’ worst enemy was Russia, and in two short months, Marilyn Monroe would pass away. But you weren’t any professional when it came to the political climate, you were just a fifteen-year-old teenager about to start your first year in high school in South Carolina. You were new to the small town you had arrived in, with the predictable name of Springfield, and you didn’t know a soul there.

The movers carried your parents stuff into the house, your younger sister, Fanny, running around the yard in with her pigtails. The sun was high in the sky, and the grass a bright emerald. Your parents were busy unpacking, and your mother told you to shoo while brushing her hair in the mirror. You didn’t want to get sucked into a chore, so you were more than willing to run off into the neighbourhood.

You wandered down the suburban streets on the hot pavement of the sidewalk, until you found yourself at a sandlot hidden away near a trailer park, and next to the sandlot was a treehouse that you assumed was the fort of the boys playing there. A friend group of very rambunctious boys were running around, playing a round of baseball, but your eyes were drawn to the boy batting.

He was a little taller than the rest of the boys, and the others seemed to circle around him like the lost boys would circle around Peter Pan. He looked like the natural leader, and he seemed to be the same age as you were. The pitcher chucked the ball, and he swung the bat as hard as he could. You had been leaning against the fence, and you had to duck as the ball came flying in your direction, right over into the road.

“You better fetch the ball when you’re done running, Johnny!” one of the boys called to him as he ran through each and every base.