At the plate, I always choked up like Felix Milan and crouched like Rusty Staub. In the field, Jon always hot-dogged like Mickey Rivers and dived for line drives like Greg Nettles.

There were the times our mothers made us let our sisters play, and the times friends joined to make it two-against-two or even three-on-three.

But that didn't count. It wasn't me against him.

We must have replayed the '78 Yankees-Red Sox playoff game at least 20 times. Whenever it was Bucky Dent's turn in the late innings, Jon would intentionally foul one off so he could claim he broke his bat. Then he would go get one of the spare bats which wasn't his and attempt to re-create the homer. It never worked.

Then, the inevitable happened. After sixth grade, I went to a different school than Jon, and by eighth grade we hardly played at all. Jon tried to justify everything by saying that my franchise was bought out and had to move away.

We were re-united in high school after 10th grade but haven't played a single game since we turned 14.

Jon and I still talk now and then--we even joke sometimes about getting together for an "Old-Timers Day" game. Actually, he jokes; I suggest a time and a place.

The swing-set is now gone, and so is the tree that prevented a Wayne Garrett home run from giving me the 1976 season.

Grass hasn't yet returned to the pitcher's mound where Jon Matlack once tossed a one-hitter or to the home plate area from where Fred Stanley once hit three grand slams in one game.

I guess that's to be expected after years and years of playing baseball there.

Baseball as it ought to be.