Here is another story about Uncle Errol that I forgot to relate, one which nonetheless made a profound impression on me. During our summer visit to Texas in 1965, Uncle Errol drove me by my boyhood hero’s house in the Preston Hollow area of Dallas. Like countless other boys growing up in the Sixties, my hero wore #7 and patrolled center field in The Bronx. My Little League team had won our league championship that year, finishing the season with thirteen wins and two losses. It was, is and will always be the best baseball team I ever played on. My friend Herb wore #7 and I wore #9, our homage to the two great Yankee bombers. I can still see my hero’s house in my mind and remember thinking, “Wow, that’s really his house.” As we rode by, in my ten-year-old mind I hoped to see him working in his yard cutting grass or trimming hedges. We could stop and I could get him to sign one of my baseball cards and I could tell him how I thought he was the greatest player ever. That didn’t happen of course. But Uncle Errol taking the time to drive by the house is something that I have never forgotten, and my boyhood hero is still my all-time favorite player to this day.