That kid.
Remember that neighborhood kid that nobody ever got out in streetball? The one that, if you held him to a single, meant your pitcher got a Gatorade shower? The one who was never a threat to the Bridges' window panes or the Morrows' landscaping, because chances are he was just going to go ahead and clear their rooftops, whether he chose to hit from the left side that particular at-bat, or the right?
The kid whose imposing bite was accompanied by virtually no bark.
The one who was such a force at the plate that you weren't sure whether to congratulate him after a couple doubles, a single, and a walk in five trips, with three RBI – or to tell him not to worry too much: he'll get 'em next time.
The one that everybody else knew would be a major league masher one day.
Can you remember what he looked like?
