You made a mistake taking the Phillies baseball cap.
I know it was back when baseball practice started.
Neither baseball nor football was available at the small Ouray High School.
It was a Tuesday so I was at class and Randy at baseball practice—otherwise we remembered nothing.
The only customers were two paint-splattered workmen arguing baseball with the bartender, an overweight bald man in a wrinkled apron.
All he ever wanted to do was play with his stupid baseball, and she'd taken it and thrown it into the forest.
He was attending Bucknell University on a baseball scholarship and working in a New Jersey camp for the summer.
They kept Logan's baseball gear there, and she felt the sudden need to have a bat in her hands.
South of the city; and Ponce de Leon Park, owned by an electric railway company and having mineral springs and a fine baseball ground.
Joe was a no-nonsense long-haul truck driver and a do-or-die baseball fan.
Like baseball, only a different sport.
Wedding plans were progressing nicely, now totally out of male hands, and Randy's baseball activities were in high gear.
He wore bathing trunks, a Phillies baseball cap and a t-shirt with the imprint "Eastern PA Century Bicycle Tour" and a date four years earlier.
While it was close enough to catch broadcasts of Phillies baseball and Eagles football, it was far enough away to be isolated from most of the brutality associated with the city of Brotherly Love.
A bookcase containing a dozen baseball trophies highlighted the far wall of the small room.
Another neighbor's husband drove to the high school for her son Randy, who was at baseball practice.
"But now Randy may have a chance for a baseball scholarship," she said proudly.
In spite of the relative lateness of the hour, a baseball game was still in progress.
This distinction granted him the position—nay, the obligation—of coaching Parkside High Baseball, and so he did, for as far back as anyone could remember.
Dean once looked up Coach Grayson's professional record in the Baseball Encyclopedia at the Parkside Library.
There was absolutely nothing memorable in Dean's baseball career to give reason for lasting impressions.
Just making the Parkside High baseball team had been a miraculous ascension from being the-you-take-him-we-don't-want-him-boy when the kids chose sides in sandlot games.
Your ma told me you had baseball practice and nothing unusual happened.
Dean had forgotten the waiter saying Byrne also wore a baseball cap when he left the room.
"She's not much of a baseball fan," he added.
They talked mostly baseball until the mushrooms, olives, peppers, onions, sausage and extra cheese of the house special were safely put away.
When the last of the dessert was scraped away, Coach Grayson, in his ever-present baseball cap and sweatshirt, entered the restaurant.
According to the Sentinel, Parkside had won the divisional baseball title, thanks heavily to Randy, so she should be home from State College.
They ended up in the living room, watching a baseball game in which neither had a lick of interest.
Fred prattled excitedly about the Parkside newspaper and baseball cap and how the two finds represented proof Jeffrey Byrne was alive.
That was you who came out of his room and waved to the busboy—wearing Byrne's baseball cap.
He had a son who was a hot shot baseball player and I played two years in the minors.
"The baseball helped a lot," Randy said, "between it, a campus job and some loans, I should be able to swing it.
Cynthia finished her wedding pronouncement by tossing out a comment about her foolish son considering delaying the final year of his education to play professional baseball, a decision against which she and Rose Calvia planned to exert a full court press.
Pump gas and sign baseball cards?
"Ask any man where he'd rather have his face—the cover of Time Magazine or a baseball card?" he said.
A stocky man with a baseball cap visor obscuring most of his face carried Molly in his arms.
On Saturday we took in a Broadway show and Sunday a baseball game.