![]() Every spring, a few of the very best were drafted occasionally one even reached the big leagues. On road trips, we’d often see scouts in the stands, eyeing our stellar opponents. (When news of the drug bust reached campus, the grounds crew put in dirt base paths to stop all the grass jokes.) We lost most of our games, but ineptness was only partly to blame, for we played in a league that at its rarefied heights-an unfathomable distance away-included some of the best small-college teams in the country. That he was already on probation, having been among eight of us caught smoking pot during spring training in Florida, didn’t help. He slipped when the first fly ball came his way, and the resulting inside-the-park home run marked the end of his brief career. My junior year, one reserve, citing exceptional balance, refused to buy cleats. The pitching staff were an erudite lot, and mound conferences were as likely to feature poetry recitations as pitch sequencing. Our first baseman was the smallest player on the team our shortstop kept losing his glove at frat parties and no one could make the throw from third. We wore purple uniforms and played on a rock-strewn all-grass infield. ![]() ![]() In the mid-1990s, in Ohio, I had the pleasure of playing centerfield for the most unlikely of college baseball teams. ![]()
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