Growing up in a Hickville neighborhood where a girl was about as common as the bubonic plague, baseball was king.

We had our own version of the minor leagues and classifications of rookies and veteran players. And, of course, we each assumed actual players’ names and painted their numbers and team logos on our “jerseys”— making sure our parents didn’t catch us ruining a shirt.

We would play from sun-up to sun-down, and then bring out a baseball painted flourescent orange so we could see at night.

However, humility and a limited sense of right and wrong was learned on the diamond in league play. During an all-star game, their was a lot of inside jokes about our team’s double-play combination, since I was at shortstop and my next-door neighbor was at second base.

So we spent a lot of time when the less-skilled players were at the plate in goofing around and not paying attention. Well, as lady-luck would have it, the “no-batter” at the plate closed his eyes and smacked a line-drive at me while I was off-guard.

I admit, I got lucky, and made what appeared to all of the parents in the stands a nice catch and nonchalantly flipped the ball to my second baseman.

Well, like I said, we didn’t have a real grasp of humility, so the two of us siezed the limelight and gave a gentle bow to the roaring crowd. I guess we weren’t aware that a simple tip of the cap would suffice.

My dad taught me most everything, so it was no wonder that he could tell when I made a nice play and when the lucky stars were gracing me with their illumination.

After taking a sever tongue-lashing when we returned home, my dad helped me realize that it doesn’t matter how good something looks, or what your past performances were, it’s only an honest effort that counts.

So I tried to carry that work ethic into everything, even in analyzing other ball players or situations. I remember Dad telling me that past accomplishments, no matter how honestly good or how lucky, don’t mount up to a hill of beans if you disgrace those accomplishments through foolish acts—such as bowing in the middle of the diamond.

I bet Dad would have said the same thing if people began to think that I wagered my paper-route money on the game, forcing me to write an essay explaining to everyone that I didn’t.

I guess I would have to write a term paper, because I admit, I had a problem with betting on how many free-throws in a row my second-base friend could make. I also would have to admit that I liked to bet on who could run around the block faster, my pitcher or my catcher, and which teammate could throw a football the farthest.

But of course, I would explain to everyone that I didn’t bet on the baseball game, and use the quarters I collected from selling my term paper to make sure I could play in next season’s all-star game.

Remember, baseball in Hickville is king, so I would never bet on the game that taught me right from wrong and the benefits of hard work.

And since I admitted to everyone that I disgraced the game and that kind of betting is wrong, and more importantly, I realize I have an uncontrolable problem and am trying to correct it, isn’t that enough?

With a nickname like Gregory Hustle, I guess it isn’t.