In 1993, when I was nine years old, I attended a youth baseball camp at Cincinnati’s Xavier University. I was one of a handful of Black players at the camp, held by an overwhelmingly white, Catholic institution, and many of my fellow-campers were surprised to find that my physical gifts did not conform to the stereotypes about Black athletes they had received through the media and from their families. I was not small or agile enough for the middle infield or fast enough for the outfield. But, though I was slow, I ran hard. At the end of the summer, our coach handed me the Charlie Hustle Award, named for a local icon who signified a certain determination and grit.
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