It’s a piece of wood 30 inches long. Solid. Usually made of Ash or Hickory and conformed to your hands like a glove. The larger side was as thick as a can of coke. Players had a preference. Mine was a thick handle so when it met the hardball there was a solid reverberation through the bat, the hands, the wrist . . right to the soles of my feet.
The ball, encased in leather, was made of tightly wound twine, and the smooth white leather was seamed with red cord. Two figure eights of leather was sewn together to make one baseball. And, it was magic in my hand.
I remember the first time. The Vice President of the New York Yankees handed me the ball in an elevator in New York City, the home of the Yankees. It was a foul ball from a Yankee bat . . to a friend of the Vice President . . and, then, to ME.
There, sitting in my bedroom in Waianae, I held the slightly gouged spheroid in my hand. I was proud, amazed and, without reservation, I made a solemn promise to be a great ball player one day.