(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 wasn’t just teaching baseball.
It was teaching life.
We learned sportsmanship.
We learned how to cheer for teammates.
We learned that somebody else’s success wasn’t our failure.
We even had our own chants.
“Pepsi Cola.
Coca-Cola.
Royal Crown.
Hypnotize ’em.
Boomerize ’em.
Knock ’em off the mound.”
To this day, I can still hear it.
And then there were the traditions.
Opening Day.
The parade.
Family Day.
All-Star festivities.
But nothing matched Closing Day at Calverton Junior High School.
That’s when the trophies came out.
Every kid wanted to hear his name.
Not because of the trophy itself.
Because it meant you had become part of something bigger than yourself.
Yesterday reminded me that the real heroes were never the players.
They were the men who kept showing up.
I saw Mr. Tom White.
He coached when I was seven years old.
Nearly 55 years later, he’s still volunteering.
Think about that.
Fifty-five years.
Still giving.
Still serving.
I saw Delmar Harrod.
Still volunteering.
William Neal.
Still volunteering.
John Carrington.
Still volunteering.
Al Meacham Jr.
Still giving back.
There were others whose names I didn’t catch.
They’re still there too.
The faces have aged.
The mission hasn’t.
James Mosher Baseball was founded in 1960 and is believed to be the oldest continuously operating African-American youth baseball league in America.
That’s an extraordinary accomplishment.
But longevity isn’t its greatest achievement.
Its greatest achievement is the thousands of Black children whose lives were redirected because somebody decided to spend evenings and weekends coaching baseball instead of doing something else.
Those volunteers didn’t just teach us how to throw a curveball.
They taught us discipline.
Respect.
Patience.
Responsibility.
Commitment.
Teamwork.
Character.
They gave us structure before the streets could.
Many of us never became major leaguers.
But we became productive citizens.
Business owners.
Journalists.
Teachers.
Preachers.
Parents.
Grandparents.
That’s the real Hall of Fame.
So thank you to every coach.
Thank you to every volunteer.
Thank you to every wife and every family member who shared your husband, father, grandfather, or brother with generations of children.
You gave us more than baseball.
You gave us a chance.
And for that, generations of Baltimore children will forever be grateful.
I have covered presidents, governors, members of Congress, Fortune 500 CEOs, celebrities, and Hall of Famers. I’ve stood in the White House more than 60 times. I’ve traveled to Africa, the Middle East, Canada, and the Caribbean telling our stories.
But yesterday, standing among those old coaches at the James Mosher Crab Feast, I was reminded that before there was any of that… there was a little baseball field in West Baltimore.
There were men who knew my name before anybody else did.
Men who expected something from me.
Men who wouldn’t let me quit.
Looking back, I realize they weren’t simply coaching baseball.
They were quietly building men.
One child at a time.
