The summer when I was twelve years old, I was the second best pitcher on my Little League all-star team. The best was a kid named Blake Snell. Yesterday, I watched him make his major league debut for the Tampa Bay Rays on the mound at Yankee Stadium. It’s safe to say I never quite caught up, skill-wise.
Blake was always the best baseball player in our little suburb, ever since we were nine years old. His dad, Dave, was a former minor league pitcher in the Mariners system, a hulking guy who constantly wore the ultra-reflective Oakley sunglasses that baseball players seem to favor. He always coached our all-star teams and taught us words that ten year olds probably shouldn’t know. I lived in constant fear of muffing a grounder and incurring his verbal wrath. But he was a great coach, and Blake was his prize pupil. Dave ran a training center out of a warehouse where Blake and his twin brother Tyler spent much of their time. I remember going there one time in high school with Tyler and some other friends to play Wiffle ball at 10 o’clock at night. It was their home away from home. Baseball was what just what the Snell kids did.
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