I wasn’t a consistent hitter, but often times I was just patient enough to labor through an at-bat and coax a walk even out of a good pitcher. I’d take the base and then wait for the inevitable, in the striding WASPy form of Clark Walker, who three times out of four would ground it straight to the shortstop. If I led off first enough, I would arrive just in time to take out the second baseman while he tried to turn the play. After I cut my finger junior year (and took twelve stitches), I began to dread the kamikaze mission, fearing I’d get concussed or worse trying to move us out of fourth place with juggernauts like Pomperaug and New Amity already running away with the division. I starting having terrible dreams about sliding into second. I’d give anything to have dreams like that again.