The Indian or the Arrow?

When I was in middle school, Rickey Henderson was lighting up the basepaths for the Oakland A's, my favorite baseball team. Rickey was the best lead-off hitter of all time. He could hit for power, but more important to the offense of the A's was his ability to get on base and create havoc for the defense. The all-time stolen base leader, Rickey turned walks and singles into doubles and sometimes triples. Rickey was fast and had great timing; he also had the coolest batting gloves ever. When everybody else was wearing fairly standard Franklin batting gloves that were white with a team colored area on the back of the hand, Mizuno made Rickey some sweet neon green gloves with padding on the back. The gloves were as unique and flashy as Rickey was, and I desperately wanted a pair. I was certain that if only I had a pair of Rickey's gloves, I would a great baseball player, and probably I'd be at least a step or two faster. As soon as I was on base the fielder's would all get a little nervous and the pitcher would go into a cold sweat. The catcher would feel sick. They would all be consumed with the fear that if they made even the slightest mistake, I would be tearing around third, slidding head (and awesome gloves) first into home, and celebrating with my teammates.

I never got the gloves. I never made it to the majors. I'm beginning to think it might have had more to do with my inability to hit a curve ball than my lack of awesome gloves. But I'm not completely positive.