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Night games, under the lights, were our favorite. The summer heat would give way to cooler evenings and as soon as the station wagon doors opened, we could smell the fresh cut grass. The dirt infield had been meticulously dragged with a piece of chain-link fence. The mound had been carefully swept, and bases had been attached to the hooks on the ground. We were dressed in our freshly washed uniforms. We felt like we were in the big leagues.

My brothers and I were all taught to fish at an early age. We would be given a cane pole to begin with and as we improved our skill level we would be promoted to a Zebco 202. The progression was as follows: 202, 404, 33 and finally, when we were high school age, the Zebco One. We never used open face reals; we didn’t see the point.

Southern church sermons are not about religious education. The sermons are meant to whip the congregation into a spiritual frenzy. When I was a kid, the preacher would start the sermon with a coherent lesson in mind, but this would almost always devolve into a hyper, fist pounding, gibberish chant. I could never be sure exactly what was being said, but I was positive that we were in trouble. The message usually involved some sin that was being committed that would inevitably lead to our damnation. We were told the rules required to get us out of this situation, but we were also reminded constantly that we were always on probation. Just one more misstep and there would be inescapable consequences.