MIFFLINTOWN — You don’t notice the size of the ball, not at first. What you notice is the sound: the quiet thump of leather against palm, the sudden chorus of kids at play, the echo of a mother’s voice—someone’s mother, someone’s friend—carrying across Walker Park as the sun angles down and a breeze turns the outfield grass silver. The ball looks huge until it’s in motion. Until you try to hit it. Until you remember that what’s supposed to be easy almost never is. Every September, the families gather, and this year—year eleven—the ritual begins again. The 11th ...