In March of 1998, I was 10 years old and getting on a plane with my dad to Florida to watch some spring training games. I had just settled into my seat when my dad tapped me on the shoulder, then pointed to a man with thick brown hair sitting a few rows ahead. Every once in a while he’d turn his head, and you got a glimpse of his face.
“That’s Jim Palmer,” he said.
I asked my dad about five times if he was kidding, waiting for him to start laughing and give up the joke.