Those sounds. The “ping” of the ball when it hits the “sweetspot” (Russell) of the bat. The satisfying “thud” of the ball hitting the middle square of the glove. These are the sounds that were my childhood in the spring/ summer months until the age of 19, the last time I played a game of organized softball. I was feeling the dirt beneath my cleats, the damp coldness of the air. I stare down the pitcher like a sniper getting ready to take the shot, and take a big breath like a diver preparing for a dive and enter the batter's box. The pitcher winds up and hurls the ball. As I watch it and judge it, I decide to let it go by; “ball one” says the ump.The catcher throws it back to the pitcher and the elaborate dance begins again. Now both the