I saw a boy with only one hand pitch a baseball in Nashville, Tennessee. I have never seen anything like it. Not before. Not since.
I sat beside his mother in their backyard and watched.
“He don’t even play on a team,” his mother said. “Truth be told, he’s not into baseball. He’s really into Star Wars.”
It all started when his little brother needed help batting for Little League. It was Big Brother who learned how to pitch by watching YouTube. They practiced in the backyard.
The kid turned out to be a good ball player. His mother says this is because he believes he can do anything.
“I mean he REALLY thinks he has no limits,” his mother says. “He’ll try anything.”
You can see it on his face. He is everything I hope to be in when I grow up. And he’s not even twelve.
I asked the boy if I could write about him. He said, “Don’t write too much.”
Then he smiled. “And
can you make my name be Luke Skywalker? Then I can read it at school and everyone will be jealous!”
Then, he and his brother pretended to sword fight, in front of me.
A few months ago, I watched a man ride a bike half way up Pike’s Peak mountain in Colorado. The man was seventy-two. There was a line of traffic behind him while he pedaled.
His calves were shaped like slabs of limestone. His skin looked like old wood. He rode with a clot of younger cyclists and held his own.
When I talked to him afterward, he smelled like sweat, onions, and a retired jockstrap.
He started biking at age sixty-six when his wife left him.
“I was stuck in the house,” he said. “Couldn’t find the willpower to go anywhere. I was just eating crap,…