I thought we had both understood that he was the problem. Should I have taken baseball lessons before joining the team, as everyone else obviously had? Where did one sign up for pre-baseball practice baseball lessons? Who taught them? Where was the baseball school and why hadn't I ever passed it while riding in my mother's car?

As the season progressed, I realized I simply had not inherited the sports gene which guaranteed boys like my brother a secure spot on the team roster. I didn't even chew gum with my mouth open or hock loogies onto the ground and use the toe of my shoe to cover the wet spot with dirt, two art forms every other boy had already mastered.

Even the coach, Mr. Bucca, didn't think much of me. He had a huge nose that he would look down whenever he found it necessary to talk to me, which was approximately three times over the course of the entire season. I think he thought of me as a stray cat; if he didn't feed me, I'd go away. He played favorites, giving the better players on the team, like his son, Frank, the choice infield positions and sticking guys like me in the outfield. He also liked to put me at the bottom of the batting order, no doubt hoping I would fall asleep before my turn at the plate. And who could blame him? I once was so surprised to hit a pitch that I slid into first, forgetting I could tag the bag and run beyond it without being called out. When the ball beat me to the base anyway, Mr. Bucca looked at me as if I had just pirouetted down the base line.

By season's end, I didn't care that our team came in last in the league and that I was the worst player we had. I never wanted to play baseball again. I'd see the Vulcan Materials trucks around town and start to hyperventilate. "Vulcan Materials," I'd think to myself. God, I hate them. If I ever need materials, I'm not going there.

Now, studying the game through the chain link fence, I pull my cycling gloves off and peer more intently at the kids on the field, looking for the boy I used to be: the short, skinny nerd I know is there, somewhere. Naturally, my eyes go to the outfield. But the kids there are spry and attentive, hitting their fists into their gloves, shouting at the batter, staying alert. They all love it. They make plays. They are not me.

I watch the batter, thinking if he strikes out then I can see myself in him. But on the third pitch he connects. Definitely not me.

Then the teams switch. Aha, I think. Here I come. But none of the boys taking up their positions on the field remotely resembles my Little League self. Or maybe it's just that my adult eyes are unable to see it. At first I feel surprised, disappointed even, that no bumbling, fumbling, modern-day version of me is in sight. Not one player can validate my experience of three decades ago. But when I realize that no one is going to look up and meet my eyes so we can nod imperceptibly to each other in recognition and understanding, I'm not as disappointed as I am jealous. I am jealous of a bunch of 8-year-olds.

Then a scrappy kid wearing a blue helmet too big for his head rounds second and I get a full-on view of his dirt-smudged face. There is an unmistakable endorphin-induced, euphoric rush of I-can-do-it joy plastered there. It's a look I recognize from a picture of me crossing the finish line of my very first 5K a couple of years ago. Which reminds me of a five-hour hike I took in the Marin headlands last month. And the office volleyball tournament my team won thanks to my amazing serve. The countless tennis games with my brothers. My week-long cycling trip through France this summer.

It may have taken me 30 years, but I finally have my own share of athletic accomplishments. I finally have something in common with the other kids.

I don my gloves and fasten my helmet strap. And as the tight ball of resentment that has kept me from organized sports my whole life disintegrates, I climb back on my bike and pedal away, the criss-cross pattern from the fence making a checkerboard light pattern on the sidewalk under my wheels.

The crack of a bat echoes behind me and I smile into the warm breeze.