Two people star in my earliest memory.
Dad and me.
I’m maybe four years old. It happened in the baseball field—or, cramped backyard—of our home in Sacramento, California. An overturned picnic table doubled as a backstop. Dad was pitching to me. I swung the littlest and lightest of bats, smacking a ball over the fence. There were Whoops! at my success, which is when the memory’s sights and sounds drift away like a tree’s last leaf in winter.
There is no known evidence of a Kodak moment to reinforce my mighty exploits. Whenever I’ve been asked about first childhood recollections, this is the one I confidently share. Most other kid-based early memories have been inspired by photos or told and retold family tales.