Lew had heard the expression “an old man playing a boy’s game” more times than he cared to
think about, but would never allow himself to believe it applied to him. Old men, he thought,
don’t bat .235, and they certainly don’t adhere to a strict regimen of jogging and weight training
during the off-season. In any case, his teammates were quick to rub it in after games in which
he’d go oh-for-four, or in which a fly ball would land just inches beyond his outstretched arm,
the shoe-string catch that never was. He knew it was all good-natured ribbing, the brand that goes on in any locker room in any sport, yet it always made him a bit uncomfortable. True, his
hitting wasn’t always consistent, but he had always attributed that to slumps. It was easy to say
“I’m in a slump, but just wait until I get out of it.” The problem was the slumps came more and
more frequently, and each one lasted just a little bit longer.
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