Here’s another excerpt from my memoir, Stunted: A Memoir of Delayed Manhood. I added a couple of baseball related photos.

During a summer baseball camp in the early 1980s, I huddle with a group of infielders on the main baseball diamond on the campus of Le Moyne College in Syracuse, New York. I’m the smallest figure in the bunch, the top of my head reaching the shoulders of the other players.

Early morning sunlight slants across the field, and a pinging sound ricochets off the brick dormitory buildings set on a hill overlooking the diamond as a garrulous coach with a Long Island accent and a potbelly stands near home plate, swinging a fungo bat and smacking ground balls to us.

Playing third base in youth league baseball in Rome, New York, in the late 1970s.

Another coach, dressed in a gray T-shirt and baseball pants, stands near our group in the infield, observing our defensive mechanics. I charge the ball and crouch low to the ground, keeping my head down and my glove open. I field several balls without a bobble and fire them to first base. The Long Island coach then lines a laser in the air toward second base, and I leap to my right—my body parallel to the ground as the ball smacks the pocket of my Mizuno mitt. The diving backhand catch produces cheers from several camp-goers nearby.

The coach hitting the fungoes yells, “Wow. Nice play out there. Way to look alive.” The coach standing near second base says in a Southern accent, “Hey, what’s your name?”

After I tell him, he says, “You’re a good ballplayer and a good-looking kid. The girls must love you. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No,” I say.

“No. Why not?”

Before I can ponder the question, I say, “I’m too small.”

“Too small—what’s that got to do with anything?” the coach says.

“I don’t know,” I say. I dig my cleats into the dirt and smack my mitt, trying to come up with an explanation. “Girls don’t like short guys.”

The coach and some older players standing near me break into laughter. I laugh too, and then I resume my place in line, kicking dirt and bouncing on the balls of my feet, waiting for the next ground ball to be hit toward me.

Playing freshman baseball in Rome, New York, in 1984.