Free Walter & Me by Paul Brown, Eddie Payton, Craig Wiley

last time we played baseball together. Walking away from Little League didn’t mean he would be able to walk away from who he was. And when someone is as gifted an athlete as Walter was, people eventually find out about it. So, despite quitting Little League, Walter did end up eventually playing a little semipro baseball with us, based solely on his raw, God-given, athletic talent.
    Now, when I say “semipro,” you’re probably thinking of something better than it actually was. We had athletes, no doubt, but we didn’t have much more than that by today’s standards. Some guys, like Walter, didn’t even have gloves at times. And our days in semipro baseball could’ve easily been called “pasture ball.” We literally played in cow pastures, complete with dried cow patties. So, we had a little something extra in our cleats from time to time. Still, we had a place to play, and we were thankful to Kurt Jefferson (no relation to George) for providing it. Kurt was the manager of an opposing team, and he owned the pasture we played in. Kurt also provided the umpire each week. And though we appreciated having a place to play, we didn’t always appreciate the umps.
    Kurt had this one ump named D.D. D.D. was an ex–Negro League baseball player and, as they say, he was kind of a homer. No matter your perspective, though, D.D. had a tendency to make some terrible calls. Everyone agreed on that. He also apparently had rabbit ears because he could hear us players talking about his terrible calls.
    One time Walter and I were in the dugout laughing and picking on ump D.D. He seemed to always have bad days, but he was having an unusually bad day, even for him. D.D. seemed to just be alternating between calling “strike” and calling “ball.” It was “strike, ball, strike, ball” all day long, and it didn’t matter where the ball was. One pitch would be chest high, and he’d call “strike.” The next pitch would be in the exact same location, and he’d call “ball.” Walter and I picked up on this pretty quickly and started yelling, “Strike! Ball! Strike! Ball!” Well, that didn’t sit well with D.D. No, not at all. He got crazy mad…and then he was running over to our dugout. Uh-oh.
    “I don’t care who you are, I’ll kill both of y’all right here! Y’all don’t know who you’re messin’ with!”
    We just sat there, expressionless while he spewed—perhaps even spat—forth the above words of insanity. Crazy-mad D.D. had to be restrained. The older guys in the league held him back, and we heard a lot of, “They’re just kids, they’re just kids, man!” They had to pull on him so hard that I’m surprised he didn’t end up shirtless. Even so, Walter and I were scared shitless. Let’s just say we never messed with crazy-mad D.D. ever again. We just kept our mouths shut around him and played ball.
    Walter just played because he could, but I absolutely loved the game. Baseball dominated my summers as a kid, all through junior high. There really wasn’t much else in terms of sports or extracurricular activities at the time (unless you want to count my other love, of course). But even though I knew I wouldn’t be able to play for Ole Miss, the idea of playing organized football began to creep in on baseball a bit. As I was getting ready to move on up into the ninth grade, I decided there was room in my organized sports life for more than baseball. I was going to go out for the high school football team, and I knew Walter would soon be movin’ on up right behind me.

4. Flirtin’ with Football
    Sleigh bells were ringin’, carolers were singin’, and Santa Claus was bringin’ something new for Walter and me that Christmas. I was nine and Walter was six. I’ll never forget looking under the tree to find two single-bar helmets and some shoulder pads that just never seemed to fit us right. Not top of the line stuff, but for two little boys, it was like hitting the jackpot. I just couldn’t figure how