KEMO SABE

I don't think I ever struck him out. But I don't rremember heading back to the dugout with my my bat in hand against him either. Oh, that's not to say I hit Tommy McGannon. He owned me, that was for sure. The best I ever did was go 1 for 4 against him, if memory serves.

But I didn't care then. Competitiveness was never a strong suit for me. I would have loved to go deep against my best bud, but it wasn't a compelling thing for me. Competitiveness is kinda like a crooked nose: you either have it or you don't.

Everything, man, I mean everything, Tommy and I did together. One Halloween we parafeened, not soaped a car. And not just the windows. We used a whole bar each of Gulf Wax parafeen on a 1952 or 1954 Chevy. Two guys caught us, but we ran away and hid. I've never been more afraid. Thankfully we got away. What were we thinking? Who knows? But like a lot of bad ideas, one of us came up with it and the other followed.

He moved away to McCook, Nebraska, the year between our 8th grade and freshmen years. I've only seen him once since then. I did write him a couple of times and he answered once. He was glad to hear from me. Once.

I can still see him on the mound in that green Giants uniform. I've got a great view behind the plate in my catcher's squat. It's an All-Star game in 1961. I call for one on the outside corner. He hits the spot as the mitt pops.

I think we went to my house after the game. My cousin Jerry was in town. He watched us win. Or maybe lose. I can't recall. Remember, I'm the guy without the competitive spirit. Maybe I'll crank out another letter to Tom. He'll remember.