Having read North of 50's post on the Sounds of Summer, I was called upon to have my own reflections concerning those sounds of our youth. Specifically, sounds embedded in the memory banks of my esteemed brother.
In those formative years, North was my baseball idol. He didn't know that and will likely get a big head over this. I'll keep a pin handy to pop that balloon. Back in the day, as it were, he was a notch above others on the baseball field. We played in back yards, on diamonds and nearly anywhere we could imagine a game. On the diamond, he was simply better than all the other kids our age. He started (and finished) as a pitcher and it took many years before hitters caught up with his arm. Alas, when they did, that was it.
When we weren't on the diamond, we made up games in the back yard. We played whiffle-ball on grass with a lawn chair as a catcher and the garage and house as the "green monsters" of our day. As a Yankee fan, I'm sure he is not happy with that reference. But going into the 'way-back machine' we played in a dirt yard with plastic bats and when we ran out of balls, we stole Sainted Mother's aluminum foil and wadded it up tightly. It did a passable job.
Back then, North knew virtually every lineup in the majors and knew if the batter was a righty or a lefty. We would play for hours in the back going through lineup after lineup. I always suspected that when it came down to a critical bat by myself, he would tell me the batter was left-handed which would eventually lead to me striking out.
Now, I've never accused him of cheating, I'm just here to set the record straight.