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I had, I don't think it would have crossed my parents mind to sue the batter, or the team, or its owner, or the city that owned the stadium, or the company that made the ball. Or anyone else, for that matter. My folks would have packed the bruise in ice, put me to bed and figured that I'd be sore but otherwise fine by morning.

Baseball was about fun and fans and sports heroes. Sports stars weren't on steroids and still had time for adoring fans and, in spite of their meagre salaries, they didn't insist on being paid a hefty appearance fee to make the time. On one of those sunny afternoons in the outfield, I had caught a fly ball and was trying to hurl it back to a ball boy standing at second base. Like nearly every seven year old kid, I didn't really know how to throw properly. It was more like a gawky heave that started with my right arm bent backwards at the elbow, my hand practically resting on my shoulder and my body set square to the target, feet flat on the ground. I tried to build some power into the throw by leaning back at my waist before shoving everything - my torso, my arm, head, the ball - towards whomever it was that I wanted to catch it. As a result, when I tossed the ball it went maybe 20 feet, mostly straight up in the air, and a good 200 feet short of where I thought it would end up.

As they still do today, pitchers ran along the perimeter of the outfield fence to strengthen their legs while fielders took batting practice. Warren Spahn and his buddy Lew Burdette were getting in their wind sprints one day as I made another futile effort to get the ball back to second base, and they came trotting over to me. Spahn - who would eventually go into the Hall Of Fame for winning more games than any left-handed pitcher in baseball, a record he still holds asked, "Hey, kid! Don't you know how to throw a ball?" Then he and Burdette, one of the better spitball artists of his time, spent five or ten minutes kneeling patiently on the grass to teach me how to throw.

What a time that was. What a game it still is. And when it resumes every year, spring has arrived.

Learn more about this author, Charley James.
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