John Howard leaned on the dugout railing and looked out at the ball field. It was magnificent. Beginning in Little League, through Babe Ruth, Connie Mack, American Legion, high school and college ball, John Howard had never set foot on a field of this caliber. His thoughts drifted back to Christmas morning two months earlier when he had opened the gift from his wife and daughter and discovered a New York Yankees spring training brochure.

“We’re going to Florida to see the Yankees in spring training?” John Howard asked, a huge grin splitting his face.

“Not exactly, daddy,” Emma said.

Sarah Jane Howard took the brochure from her husband and flipped it over.

“Here,” she said, handing it back.

“Glory Days Fantasy Baseball Camp,” John Howard whispered.

He looked up at his wife and daughter. Words failed him.

“It was Emma’s idea,” Sarah Jane said. “A week in Florida playing ball with Yankee legends and Hall of Famers. We’ll look after the ranch while you’re gone.”

“An unforgettable baseball experience for senior athletes over the age of fifty,” John Howard read aloud from the brochure. “Elite athletes only.”

John Howard folded the brochure and said, “Well, I’m certainly over fifty, but I don’t know about elite.”

“You’re elite, daddy,” Emma said.

Sarah Jane nodded.

“The best or most powerful of anything considered collectively,” is how Webster’s had defined elite.

John Howard had been a good ballplayer growing up, made a few All Star teams, received some recognition. He was an excellent fielder and pretty good hitter, but he was not an elite player. Not an All Conference or All American player, the kind that was followed by major league scouts. One look at his lack of power, average speed, and average arm strength was all any knowledgeable observer needed to know that he was looking at a good player, but not a great one.

And, so, he had begun to worry. And, he had begun to prepare. Daily hitting sessions in the batting cages out on Route 29 had toughened his hands and sharpened his reflexes. The local high school baseball coach had let him work out with his team, shagging flies and taking ground balls, as they prepared for their season.

And, now, here he was. He had stepped onto the field the first day feeling like an impostor. He fully expected the camp director to ask him to leave, that this was a camp for elite ballplayers, and didn’t he read the brochure?

It turned out fine. To his great relief he found that his skills, or what remained of them, were comparable to most of the other players. There were two players who clearly excelled, reminding him of fellow All Stars that he had played with and against growing up. Players whose skills were a notch above his own.

What a week it had been. Practice games and professional instruction from former Yankee greats and the opportunity to meet the current Yankees. Last night’s surprise dinner with the team had been the highlight of the week. Sitting between Joe Torre and Derek Jeter, John Howard had felt like he was twelve years old.. Jeter had even shared some batting tips with him.

John Howard and his teammates sprinted onto the field accompanied by loud applause and the pounding music of “ Glory Days,” Bruce Springsteen’s rock anthem and the camp’s theme song. John Howard glanced up in the stands and spotted his wife and daughter. Emma had gotten off work and they had driven down to pick him up and see his final camp game. Suddenly, the manager emerged from the dugout and called the team off the field.

“Tiger Richards wants to pitch a simulated game,” the manager said without preamble.

Nobody said anything.

“This game,” the manager added. “In fact, he insists.”

Everyone stared at the manager in disbelief.

Finally, John Howard said, “Is this the same Tiger Richards that won the Cy Young award and throws a 100 mph fastball?”

The manager nodded. “ I’m sorry,” he said. “I know a lot of you have family here at the game, and this isn’t what any of us expected.”

The players remained silent.

The manager hesitated, and then said, “You don’t have to do this.”

John Howard looked around and said, “So our choice is to quit or be humiliated in front of our families.”

Silence.

John Howard grabbed a bat and said, “I’m no quitter.”

It was even worse than he expected. He walked up to the plate the first time feeling like a fifth grader getting up to deliver an oral book report. Three fastballs thrown at roughly the speed of light and he was back on the bench. And, so it went. Nobody could touch Richards, of course. He struck out every batter he faced, all the time wearing a self satisfied smirk that suggested he couldn’t be happier unless he was torturing puppies or burning ants with a magnifying glass. He was cruising, blowing away the old men in their fifties and sixties that he was facing. John Howard was pretty sure that Richards could pitch another nine innings if they could round up a team of women and children for him to face.

The crowd had been quiet since the first inning. They, along with every one else on the field except Tiger Richards, knew how wrong this was.

John Howard knew that this day would live on in his memory as long as he drew breath. A six day dream culminating in a nightmare that his family had the great misfortune to witness.

One more out and it would be over. John Howard stepped into the batters box carrying his bat on one shoulder and the weight of the world on the other. Richards fired the first pitch right at him. John Howard jumped out of the way only to watch in amazement as the ball swerved across the plate at the last second, hissing like a feral cat.

“Step out of the box,” the catcher said in a low voice.

John Howard stepped out.

“The next pitch will be a belt high fastball on the outside corner. Choke up on the bat, get up on the plate, and start your swing as soon as that jerk, Richards, releases the ball.”

John Howard took a deep breath and stepped back in the batters box. Richards delivered the pitch and John Howard swung. The bat exploded in his hands. He watched, momentarily stunned, as the barrel of the bat skipped out past the pitchers mound toward second base. The ball dropped softly on the infield grass as the pitcher and second baseman frantically dodged the wayward bat. John Howard put his head down and ran. Had someone dropped a vat of molasses on the base path? First base seemed a long way away. He crossed the bag just as the second baseman got to the ball and threw to first.

“Safe,” the umpire cried.

John Howard looked up at the scoreboard to see how the play would be ruled. The crowd was still until the red light flashed on. Hit!

The noise from the crowd and his teammates was deafening, but above it all he heard the voice that meant the most to him.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy.”

“Daddy, daddy, daddy.”

John Howard rolled over and opened his eyes. His daughter looked back at him.

“You said we could go on a trail ride this morning.”

“Emma?” John Howard asked.

Emma nodded.

The dream refused to leave his mind.

“Did you saddle Jubal and Dixiebelle?” he asked in a thick voice that suggested he had spent the night drinking rather than sleeping.

“I’m too small, daddy,” Emma replied.

“You’re five,” John Howard said, staring at her..

Emma nodded.

John Howard bit down hard on the inside of his cheek causing the dream to yelp in surprise and fly away.

“I made us a picnic breakfast,” Emma said.

“I love picnic breakfasts,” John Howard said. “What did you make?”

“I packed apples for Jubal and Dixiebelle and I made you two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And I packed a bag of chocolate chip cookies.”

“What are you going to eat?” John Howard asked his daughter.

“I’ll eat the cookies,” Emma said. “I better eat them before they expire so we don’t waste them.”

John Howard nodded. “We shouldn’t waste food, especially when there are people in the world who are starving.”

John Howard looked at his daughter and said, “Maybe we should send the cookies to the starving people.”

Emma shook her head and said, “We can’t send them cookies that are getting ready to expire, daddy. It might make them sick.”

“You’re right,” John Howard said. “Good thinking.”

“We could send them beets and asparagus,” Emma said. “Mama’s got some in the refrigerator.”

John Howard laughed.

“Daddy, what’s that song you keep humming?” Emma asked.

John Howard realized that he had been humming the chorus to Glory Days.

Glory days well they’ll pass you by

Glory days in the wink of a young girl’s eye

“Glory Days, sweetie,” John Howard replied. “It’s a rock and roll classic.”

“What’s a glory day, daddy?” Emma asked.

John Howard didn’t even have to think about it. He reached out to hug his daughter, and said, “Today, Emma. Today’s a Glory Day.”