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Long ago and far away there lived a little boy who liked to play in the park. The park had swings. The park had ducks. The park had trees for climbing and grass for somersaulting. But of all the wonderful things in the park, the absolute most fun thing of all was a game the older boys played called baseball. At first, the older boys would only let him chase foul balls that had gone in the bushes. He hadn't yet learned how to wear a mitt, swing a bat or actually field a ball, but he knew how to chase ducks and throw rocks. And those skills seemed very useful for the game in the park.

And then the inevitable happened. One day the older boys were shorthanded. They gave him a mitt and stuck him in the outfield. Even promised him a time at bat. What else could a boy possibly want out of life? There was no disputing it now. The kid was a ballplayer.

Now it was just a matter of time. Major league scouts don't sign seven year-olds. But you have to be ready. So you play the game or some version of it twenty-four hours a day. At the schoolyard, in the backyard, or at the kitchen table. Rain or shine, it doesn't matter. You've got baseball on the brain. And baseball cards in every pocket.