As I concentrate on my memoir, all kinds of things are popping into my mind, rather like memory popcorn. Few of these memories will make it into the memoir but reading my old journals refreshes my grasp of experiences long past.
I've long had an image of my son Aidan's first time swinging a baseball bat. It was a pink, plastic bat he found in our basement on Elsie Street.
This morning, I rediscovered that memory by reading my 1998 journal. It was April 18 of that year when I'd just turned 51 and he was barely 3 1/2. He naturally took a strong left-handed swing, although he is right-handed.
Any little league coach like me likes a left-handed batter. Why? Because he is one big step closer to first base when he hits ground ball. If he is fast (Aidan always has been fast) he's going to beat out a lot of infield hits.
In good time Aidan did just that, as one of the best hitters my pal Susan Lupica and I coached during our years in the SF Little League association.
Again, not for the memoir, which is supposed to be about journalism, but meaningful for me.
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