The only reason I got to play Little League that one year was because my father went through a guilty phase that motivated him to pay for it. He even bought me a birthday present that year—an outfielder’s glove.

I hadn’t even been all that excited about baseball. But now I was dying to play football on a real team. I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting until junior high before I could play.

I had already begun to acquire a modicum of self-confidence. It started with those first words of encouragement from Uncle Si. He was quickly becoming the most important person in my life.

He wasn’t easy on me. He pushed me, hard, and almost never accepted excuses. Whenever I grumbled about how sore and tired I was, or voiced any other complaint, he would ask, simply: “What do you want—sympathy?”

My complaints froze in my mouth. I examined my motives for bellyaching, and it was true—I had wanted sympathy. When I realized this, I was ashamed. I attacked my training, driven by the anger with myself, and wouldn’t complain again that day.

But Uncle Si was never cruel or insulting. He believed in me. He said as much. And his actions lined up with his words.

Without my newfound confidence, I probably wouldn’t have asked Mom if I could start Pee-Wee Football that summer.

St. Louis was a big enough city, I was sure there must be a program.

I waited until a commercial before asking her, one night.

She fit her casual dismissal seamlessly in between lighting a cigarette and making a phone call, without missing a beat: “Don’t be silly, Pete. Those things cost money.”

Maybe my father was going through another guilty phase. I would have asked him about Pee-Wee, if I had known how to get hold of him.

I was in a melancholy mood when I trudged into The Warrior’s Lair the next day. When Uncle Si saw me he asked, “Everything okay?”

I didn’t want to lie to my uncle, but I didn’t want to complain either, so I said nothing.

“Hey, step in the office for a minute,” he said, cheerily. “Need to talk to you.”

I followed him into the office and we took our respective seats.

“I couldn’t help but notice how much you’re into football, lately,” he said.

I’d developed a habit of assuming the worst in most situations, especially when in a bad mood, so even as I nodded, I imagined the next thing out of his mouth would be a reprimand for letting it distract me from my training.

“I coach in the Pop Warner League,” he said. “Sign-ups are next month. Think you’d like to play?”

I stared at him wide-eyed.

He waved a hand over the desk. “I know your parents won’t pay for it. No big deal. I can take care of it, if you want to play.”

“Are you serious?”

He nodded.

Just like that, my mood went from one extreme to the other. I couldn’t stop thanking him, and it took a while before I calmed down.

“Oh yeah,” he said, opening a big drawer in the bottom of his desk. “I got something for you.”

He tossed me a brand new football.

I caught it and looked it over. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” he said. “Now you don’t have to depend on other boys to bring a ball when you want to play.”

“Thanks Uncle Si,” I said, taking grip on the laces. I felt guilty, like I’d been cheating or something. “I don’t get it. You’ve done all this stuff for me…”

“And you appreciate it,” he said. “That’s enough.”

He sent me to the locker room to get dressed for training. When I came out, ready to skip rope, he said, “You’ve been coming along pretty good, so far. I want you to keep practicing everything you’ve learned, and this summer we’ll start working in some kicks.”

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