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May the champions live forever

It was a dark day back in 1990. A bunch of boys fresh out of left field went out with all the courage in the world and played with everything they had. By the time the city championship rolled around, the boys were men, the coaches gods and the opponents reduced to cowards, shuddering in fear. As the sun fell and the lights on the field rose, electricity hung in the air and sparkled in the players' eyes. The game of their lives came to a close, and those men were champions.

That's how the story begins, usually, when Mitch, Eric and I tell it. We lay it on nice and thick. Sure there is a slight bit of embellishing along the way, and with every telling and each successive beer, the embellishment grows just a little bit more. But the fact remains - we won the Prescott Little League Championship. We were the best.

Our team name was VFW, sponsored by the local chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars. As we like to put it, we fought for the boys who fought for our freedom.

The game was tough. The entire season was tough. We weren't supposed to win, but we breezed through the league - generally embarrassing the rest of the city - and right into the championship game. We weren't supposed to win. The Kiwanis had the premiere pitcher in the league. Last I heard the 6-foot-8-inch righty is still pitching somewhere in the Arizona Diamondbacks organization. And struggling with his control.

I'll never forget looking over at Coach Pete right after our pitcher struck out the last batter for our 5-4 victory. He jumped, straight up, higher than I would have guessed he could, still clutching his clipboard. I think his hat fell off. Or maybe it was my hat that fell off. The ensuing celebration was like nothing else I've ever experienced. We earned all the mad hysterics we could manage.

We all rushed the mound and jumped. It was just like after the World Series on television. But it was real, I was there. I even got to hold the trophy for the picture that was in the newspaper the next day.

I'm not sure what happened to all the players from that team. The aforementioned two reside in Tucson. I think at least a couple are junkies, or burnouts or whatever. Our centerfielder graduated as the valedictorian of the class before me and went to California. One played junior college soccer. I don't think any of the team went on to play baseball after high school.

I'm 10 years burning down the road now, but that one baseball season still sticks in my mind. There's something about being the best that is hard to forget. There's something about loving the game for what it is and playing just to have fun.

Yesterday was the annual Major League Baseball All-Star Game. National against American. It sounds so grand and exciting. I don't really give a damn who won or lost or for that matter who even went to the game. Pro baseball is played at the bank these days, not on the field. It's about dollars - by the hundreds of millions. Television revenue and shoe endorsements.

As an 11-year-old kid, my life revolved around baseball. I had my hand-me-down cleats and a constantly dirty uniform.

I grew disillusioned with baseball after Little League. It wasn't fun to play anymore. So I quit and got a job. It was easier than hitting a curveball.

The old field is still there, but the Little League games are played across town now and it's not kept up very well. The field was almost perfect as I remember it. With everyone in uniform, we looked like the pros, which was what we wanted to be. I'll pass at the fantasy of being a pro now. I'd rather play another game of Little League. Ah the glory days ...

With equal measure heart and skill, we won that final game, and established ourselves as legends. Until the next year.