My brother Rick and I grew up in a time and place ideally suited to the formation of lifelong baseball fans. The time was the 1950s and early 1960s; the place was Pomona, California, just a bit east of Los Angeles. The Dodgers moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles in 1958; I had my 10th birthday that June and Rick turned 8 in December.
In the 1950s, boys like us could be found playing catch or over-the-line (when only a handful of players were available) or Wiffle ball in the backyard or sandlot games all over town. Now well into my 70s, and long transplanted to Wheaton, Illinois, I still see children playing some form of baseball here or there, but the everyday seasonal presence of
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