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When I was twelve years old, there were only two things I dreamed about: touching a boob and making it to the Little League World Series. Of the two, the Little League World Series seemed more realistic. My team looked to be one of the best that our small San Diego suburb had seen in years. There were lofty expectations.

"They wrote about your team in the paper," my dad said, tossing the local Point Loma Beacon at me as we ate breakfast.

"NO WAY!" I screamed, frantically grabbing the pages and flipping through them. "Dad, this is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me."

"No offense, but you’re twelve. A solid shit and a decent hamburger could make your top ten."

I spent the week leading up to our first tournament game thinking only of Little League baseball. At school, my friends on the team talked about who would share bunk beds with whom once we got to Williamsport, home of the Little League World Series. At home, I watched my Tom Emanski instructional video until it was so grainy that Fred McGriff looked white. It was the prism through which I saw everything.

After what felt like months, game day was finally upon us. My dad and I pulled up to a dusty parking lot that sat in front of several Little League fields, all filled with hopeful twelve year-olds in variously colored, ill-fitting baseball pants. At the levels of excitement I’d so far experienced in my life, this fell somewhere between "The time I met Mr. T" and "The second time I met Mr. T." And things were about to get even more exciting: our coach informed us that I would be starting on the mound. This had officially eclipsed both of my Mr. T encounters. I ran to the stands where my dad had already taken a seat and started on a hot dog, and I told him the news.

"Relax. Just remember what I told you and you’ll be fine. Now get out there," he said, patting me on the back and giving me a shove toward the field.

I turned to go, then quickly stopped and turned back toward him.

"Wait, remember what you told me about what?" I said.

He stared at me for a moment then let out a big sigh.

"Alright, you got me. I didn’t tell you shit. Kinda just wanted to eat my hot dog in peace. Look, just throw strikes and keep the ball inside on the chubby kids." he said.