(BALTIMORE – June 29, 2026) — Yesterday, I attended the James Mosher Baseball Crab Feast. I left full. Not because of the crabs. Because of the memories. Walking around Putty Hill, I wasn’t just seeing old baseball players. I was seeing little boys all over again. Boys who are now grandfathers. Boys who became preachers, businessmen, teachers, fathers, elected officials, coaches, and community leaders. James Mosher Baseball did that. Growing up, there was a pitcher named Craig. Tall. Chocolate brother. If he was on the mound, you knew you were in for a long afternoon. He was one of the most feared pitchers in the league. Then there was Brian Easley. Everybody knew Brian. He was family by marriage to my fifth- and sixth-grade teacher, and he could flat-out hit. Home runs weren’t accidents for Brian. They were expected. Howard Fields was another one. A Poly man. Home-run king. Last I heard, I think he’s preaching now. Even his little brother could swing the bat. Then there were the Davis brothers. The Tigers. Mr. Barrett’s boys. Eric, the oldest, calm and steady. Kevin? Kevin was different. Mean competitor. Beast on the mound. Home-run king. If you were playing against Kevin, you knew you had to bring your best. Then came Kenny, the left-handed little brother. Another home-run hitter. Looking back, it seemed like everybody could hit except me. Well…almost. In full disclosure, I did hit the fence once. And if memory serves me correctly, I even hit an inside-the-park home run one year. If not, I definitely stretched a few balls into triples during my fourth and fifth seasons. But here’s the truth. The first three years? I rode the bench. Two mandatory innings in left field. The rest of the game? Watching the older boys play. And bunting. Lord, did I bunt. I knew Coach’s bunt signal better than multiplication tables. For nearly three years, that was my assignment. Drop the bunt. Move the runner. Take your seat. I couldn’t wait until somebody finally believed I deserved to swing away. But today I appreciate it. Because that generation believed something we’ve almost forgotten. You earned your spot. Nobody apologized for making you wait. Nobody promised everybody equal playing time. You learned patience. You learned humility. You learned to improve until your number was called. I played for the Mets. Our first two seasons weren’t exactly Hall of Fame material. Truth be told, we were terrible. But by our third season, under Coach Charlie Hughes and Coach Earl Ruff—the man famous for those ice-cold Pepsis—we won the championship. That’s right. Put some respect on it. During the championship game, our center fielder, Jesse Stevenson, had to leave for vacation. Most people would’ve panicked. Not me. I knew exactly what it meant. My turn had finally come. Back then, everybody knew where they stood. You knew who hit better than you. You knew who deserved to start. And when your opportunity came, you tried not to waste it. James Mosher Baseball…

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