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Dave Bakenhaster walked away from the game, at the young age of twenty-five, and went to work in a warehouse near the Ohio home where he’d grown up.

TWO

Loving Baseball

When I was a boy, I wanted to be Dave Bakenhaster. I don’t mean I wanted to be him, specifically, but someone like him. I was eleven the summer he spent his brief moment in the major leagues, and I imagined myself some years into my future playing baseball for the St. Louis Cardinals, my favorite team. On most nights throughout the spring and summer, I listened to their games on a transistor radio hidden under my pillow. I kept the volume low so my parents would not know I was tuned in when I was supposed to be sleeping.

I knew the names of the players in the starting lineup: Lou Brock, Bill White, Curt Flood, Julian Javier, and the others. My brother and I played wiffle ball in our backyard, alternating as pitcher and hitter. When I batted, I pretended to be one of the starting Cardinals, announcing to my brother who I imagined myself each time.