As a little girl, I loved to cuddle on my grandpa’s lap. Papa Joe was lanky and pale-skinned, like many of his fellow immigrants from Ireland.
The only parts of Papa Joe that weren’t pale were his knuckles. They were wrinkled and gray — like they were somehow older than the rest of him.
When I asked my grandpa about them, he told me he’d been a Minor League baseball player, with big dreams of reaching the Majors.
But one day he stepped to the plate, and the pitcher fired a monster curveball. As the ball zipped past the inside corner, Papa Joe jerked back. But it was too late.
His knuckles were crushed. And that was the end of Papa Joe’s baseball career.