By every account, Quinn Madison was a typical All-American Girl. In her bedroom, a poster of Andy Gibb was taped on her closet door; a giant Holly Hobby doll sat comfortably on the seat of her white rocking chair. Along with her best girlfriends, Helena, Samantha and Phoebe, she had seen the movie GREASE more than twelve times. They all loved John Travolta and absolutely wanted to grow up to become Olivia Newton-John. It was the spring of 1979. Boys were expected to be boys; mother's crossed their fingers hoping their girls still expected to be girls.

Twelve-year-old Quinn loved everything about her life. Although she was by every means an average child, the one thing she loved most of all was BASEBALL. Beneath her canopy bed was hidden a shoebox full of baseball cards. In the evenings, when she was supposed to be asleep, the box would come out of hiding. Sitting cross-legged with the pillow propped behind her and the comforter snuggly covering her lap, she memorized the stats on each and every card. Baseball was her passion; baseball was her life.

Early on a Saturday morning, Quinn woke up long before anyone else. Dressed in day-glo purple shorts with white piping around the legs and a matching t-shirt with a large white number 2 on the back, she rode her bike to the local schoolyard. Her bike was metallic red with a matching banana seat and red, white and blue streamers blowing happily from the ends of the handlebars. The white basket on the front was full of baseballs; her glove and ball cap rested on top.

Sure, she had played on the Girls' Softball Team the year before but underhand pitching just wasn't fast enough for Quinn. She wanted to feel the weight of a baseball in her hand; she wanted the thrill of the Fast Ball and the crack of the bat. Parking her bike next to the pitcher's mound at the school's ball field, she lifted her glove from the basket full of balls and inhaled the scent of freshly worked leather. Placing her cap on to her head, she was ready to go.

The ball in one hand, the glove fitting snugly on the other, Quinn assumed the position, raised both hands above her head, smoothly lowed them and released the ball. Too wide. Frowning, another ball was released. Too high. Again and again, a ball was released until the pitch was perfect.

Morning was slowly creeping toward noon as the girl became one with the ball and glove. By twos and by threes, little boys with baseball on their minds began to show up at the field on their own bikes. Many of them lined up outside the fence to stare at the strange sight that met them. Their minds screamed the same thought: GIRLS WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO PLAY BASEBALL!