For some weird reason, I have been repeatedly reminded lately of my childhood summers.

Particularly, I’ve been fondly reminiscing about going to visit Auntie Aggie and Uncle Phil.

Auntie Aggie was my grandmother’s sister. Like my grandma, Auntie Aggie was a tough broad. I adored her, like I adored my grandmother.

During the summer, when I was a wee laddie, I recall my mom, my grandma and I going to Auntie Aggie’s house.

As much as I adored my Auntie Aggie, Uncle Phil was a pretty cool dude. He would do stuff with me, while letting the women-folk gossip and such in the house.

Sometimes, we would go out to the old-smelling, wooden garage and build stuff. I would hammer boards together in the most awful manner and Uncle Phil would call it a masterpiece.

Sometimes, we would walk to the neighborhood park and mess around there.

Uncle Phil was my buddy.

And now, as I get older, my memories become fonder each passing summer.

I told Sheryl that I always thought I would die of a heart attack. But while reminiscing about my childhood summers, I realized that that may not be true.

The neighborhood kids and I played a lot during the summer. We were outside almost all of the time. It was never too hot.

And we played baseball like it was going out of style.

I played tee-ball and little league. And on off days, we would play at the school baseball diamond.

We would play until it was either dark, or until mom called us in.

Being a big kid, my knees always hurt me by the end of the day. They used to hurt so bad, that I would sometimes be in tears once I finally sat down for the night.

But my desire to play… play baseball, play with my friends… my heart… was always bigger than pain. Bigger than my knees.

And so, I am re-thinking the heart attack thing.

Is it possible to die from playing too much?