What made it unfortunate in my father’s case is that he would do it on airplanes. At some point in every flight, he would stroll back to the galley area or the space by the emergency exit and, taking up the posture of someone trying to budge a heavy piece of machinery, an industrial printing press, say, begin to push with his shoulder or back against the outer wall of the plane, grunting the while in a low and preoccupied manner. Since it looked uncannily, if unfathomably as if he were trying to force a hole in the side of the plane, this naturally drew attention. Businessmen would stare over the tops of their reading glasses; a stewardess would pop her head out of the galley and likewise stare, but with a certain cold caution, as if remembering some aspect of her training which she had not previously been called upon to implement.

Seeing this, my father would straighten up and smile and briefly outline the engaging principles behind isometrics. Then he would give a demonstration to an audience that swiftly consisted of no one. He seemed curiously incapable of feeling embarrassment in such situations, but that was all right, because I always felt enough for both of us—indeed, enough for us and all the other passengers, the airline and its employees, and the whole of whatever state we were flying over.

Two things made these undertakings tolerable. The first was that back on solid ground my dad wasn’t half as foolish. The second was that the purpose of these trips was always to go to a big city, stay in a nice hotel, and attend ballgames, and that excused a very great deal. My dad was a sportswriter for the Des Moines Register and often took me along on trips through the Midwest. Sometimes these were car trips to places like Sioux City or Cedar Rapids, but at least once a summer, sometimes more, we flew to St. Louis or Milwaukee or Chicago to take in a home stand. It was a kind of working holiday for my dad.

Baseball was part of a simpler universe in those days, and I was allowed to go with him into the clubhouse and dugout and even onto the field before the games. I had my hair tousled by Stan Musial. I handed Willie Mays a ball that had skittered past him while playing catch. I lent my binoculars to Harvey Kuenn so that he could scope some distant blonde in the lower deck. I sat in a nearly airless clubhouse beside Ernie Banks, naked but for a towel, as he autographed box after box of new white baseballs, each box containing a dozen balls. When he had finished with one box, I would hand him another, and he would thank me with a kindly smile. I knew my life was blessed.

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Bill Bryson was born in Des Moines, Iowa. For twenty years he lived in England, where he worked for the Times and the Independent, and wrote for most major British and American publications. His books include travel memoirs (Neither Here Nor There; The Lost Continent; Notes from a Small Island) and books on language (The Mother Tongue; Made in America). His account of his attempts to walk the Appalachian Trail, A Walk in the Woods, was a huge New York Times bestseller. He lives in Hanover, New Hampshire, with his wife and his four children.