I'm at a baseball game. Minor league, 'cause that's what we've got around here, and I'm not complaining. I'm wearing a replica Twins jersey for no reason other than I like my replica Twins jersey and it's white, meaning I'll roast slightly less in the afternoon Carolina sun.
As I'm walking through the concourse, an older gentleman comes up to me. "Twins," he says. "That's a nice jersey. You remember Harmon Killebrew?"
Now, I don't remember Harmon Killebrew - he was a little before my time - but I certainly know who he was. Nicknamed "The Killer", one of the all-time HR leaders, a batting stance so perfect the reportedly used it for the MLB logo, reportedly one of the nicest guys ever to play the game, etc. etc. etc. So I'm familiar, at least, with Mr, Killebrew and his body of work.
So I nod. And the gentleman says to me, "His first season, he was 21. I was a batboy for the Washington Senators. They took us on the road and everything in those days. And I remember sitting there and drinking Coke with Harmon Killebrew when the rest of the team was drinking beer. That's my Harmon Killebrew story. You got it for that jersey. Enjoy the game!"
He walked off with his family. I wished him a good night. And my life got a little better for knowing that.