The score was tied, runners at second and third. I was at bat with a full count, three balls and two strikes. Our 8-year-old neighbor boy, Joe, was pitching in the cow pasture where we played in 1968 in Arletta.
I hit a weak grounder that slipped between the first and second basemen, bouncing over grass hummocks to the outfield. Alpha, our black Labrador retriever and best outfielder, raced for the ball. I pounded toward first base, taking care not to step in the squishy wet green cow pies along the way.
Alpha adeptly caught the ball in the air and ran toward my brother Chris, who was playing catcher. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. She was a fast dog.
“Here, Alpha! Here, Alpha!” Chris called urgently. Obeying, Alpha ran straight toward him.