The TSA agent at Newark International Airport stopped me after I cleared the body scanner. He had my backpack on a table. He opened it, peered inside, and gave me a perplexed look.

"For the kids," I said.

Evidently, traveling with a backpack filled with three dozen baseball wasn't a common thing. But, then, I was going to the Dominican Republic.

My friend Rob and I traveled to Barahona, a province in the southwestern part of the country, years away from the resorts of Punta Cana on the east coast.  It was untouched land, an all-natural place lacking widespread  electricity and plumbing. Rob had come here to help build a school, and he spoke Spanish.

Dominican boys live for the game of baseball, though most of them don't own an actual baseball. They improvise, using anything that works — including heads from their sisters' dolls. So I, having loved the game since my first season of T-ball 30 years ago, had brought that backpack full of brand new balls.

One morning, Rob went for an early run as I slept. I awoke to a thump on the corrugated metal roof of the two-room cement-block house we were staying in. Soon, I heard some kids clamoring outside. When I went out, I saw a group of 10-year-olds looking up, searching for the ball one had hit onto the roof.

The roof was too unstable to climb on to. "Un momento," I told the boys in my limited Spanish and went over to the car and fetched a few of the baseballs from my bag. I handed each boy one shiny white pearl, and they ran back up the street, disappearing around the corner.

I walked over to the patio to sit with a teenager named Javier who knew Rob and had stopped by the house while all this was going on.  Within a couple of minutes, a swarm of boys came running and buzzing around that corner.

This was the time to give away the 30 baseballs still my backpack.

I walked back to the car and, as the boys engulfed me, unzipped the pack and handed out the balls as fast I could, their  hands waving, their bodies jostling me and each other.

After the bag was empty, they still crowded around me, reaching for more baseballs. "No mas!" I yelled. "No mas!"

I looked to Javier.

"Javier, say something!"

He just sat there laughing so hard that he was holding his stomach.

"Say something!"

But he was busy laughing.

I climbed my way through the crowd and back to the patio.

"No mas! No mas!"

Two words that, where I grew up, we never had to hear when it came to baseballs.

Miles Ryan Fisher grew up playing Horsham Little League baseball and now lives in Washington, where — 25 years later — he still plays (and also coaches 10-year-olds). 

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