ABSTRACT
When I was eight years old, I tucked my braided pigtails under a blue and red baseball cap, reasoning with all of my third-grade wisdom that the disguise would hide my gender, grabbed my Tony Oliva autographed glove and jumped in the family Wagoneer to go to the baseball park. The early April temperatures were climbing into the 50’s in Pocatello, Idaho, and snow had been absent for at least a couple of weeks. Undoubtedly, the season was little league.
