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I found myself quite entranced by the opening pages of Steve Mitchell's paper. I had intended to skim the first paragraph as I was organizing papers late one night, and before I knew it, I was well into page 5. By page 2, I had vividly pictured the young Steve Mitchell and his father, the two of them exploring the glories of baseball together. I pictured “grounders” and balls taking “bad hops” and (having vigorously avoided any form of contact with baseball as a girl), I savored the wonderful foreign maleness of the images those words evoked. Then I got to page 3. And, of course, it wasn't really anything like what I'd pictured.
But it got me thinking. I found myself thinking not just about baseball and its relation to my particular construction of gender, but about