There was much woe and lamentation in the seventies that the game was dying.

Donning a glove for a backyard toss, or watching a ball game, or just reflecting upon our baseball days, we are players again, forever young.

If I haven't made myself clear, this worrisome chain of events describes the game of the nineteenth century.

The caliber of play suffered and attendance declined year by year. Interest in college football was exploding, and there was this new game called basketball.

As the game enters its glorious final weeks, the chill of fall signals the reality of defeat for all but one team. The fields of play will turn brown and harden, the snow will fall, but in the heart of the fan sprouts a sprig of green.

I think that much of this was running in background as I contemplated whether or not to attend the PS 99 reunion, although I certainly anticipated that I would not; it smelled like death, not youth.