It is so much more than just a bucket of balls. It’s a bucket of history; a bucket of hopes; a bucket of potential; a bucket of heartbreak; it is a bucket of sweat and tears. It is a bucket full of friendships that will last a lifetime. That bucket holds frosty March mornings and golden October sunsets. Tilt it and it pours out the sounds of family and fans, screaming with pride and groaning in dismay. In that bucket you will find grandfathers and fathers and sons sharing time on freshly mown grass and rich, evenly packed dirt. It holds the daydreams of an 8-year-old boy, staring out the classroom window into a sunny May afternoon and the memories of an 80-year-old man, watching September pass him by for the final time around. When you reach into that bucket, you don’t just pull out baseballs. You pull out dreams.