Fifteen cents got you a hollow, pink rubber ball. You usually had a few in your pockets. You'd get up in the morning, you and your buddies from the West End neighborhood, and you would play.

At 4, you'd leave Poplar Street for Crosley Field. It was three blocks away. You'd park cars for a few bucks, hop on the hood and lead the fan to a spot. Then you'd chase batting practice home run balls and shine them back to perfection with a pencil eraser.

You'd sneak in the games through a secret opening behind the home clubhouse. You'd beg the batboys for broken bats. You got Hank Aaron's bat. And Orlando Cepeda's and Don Drysdale's, and one from Willie Mays. You'd drive a nail through the crack and tape the handle. Then you'd pretend you were Roberto Clemente. He gave you a wristband once.

It was 1967 or '68. Crosley Field was equal parts home, shrine and playground. You couldn't imagine life without baseball.

On a rainy Saturday afternoon, Chris Nelms sits in his car in the parking lot at Withrow and tells this story. It's all his. His hands work an imaginary bat. "One year we decided to see who could get the most foul balls," Nelms is saying. "I got 96."

If you are of a certain age, this is a familiar reverie. "We knew the lineups for every team in the National League," Nelms, 49, says. I find myself nodding. Yes. Yes, we did.

It doesn't take much to stir Nelms from his daydream. "When you go to the West End now," I wonder, "how many kids do you see playing baseball?"

None, he says. Ever. "It's painful," Nelms says. "It's the disappearing act of baseball in the inner city."

Something called the Institute for Diversity and Ethics in Sport has released a report showing only 10 percent of all major-league ballplayers in 2002 were African-American. It's the lowest total since 1960. But if you are Chris Nelms - Taft High star, Central State star, three-year Reds minor-leaguer - you don't need a report. You just take a look around.

The question isn't who will be the next Dave Parker. It's whether there ever will be another.

In 1995, the Reds won the NL Central with 10 blacks on their roster. Now, they have three. Fourteen teams have two blacks or fewer. Latin prospects are cheaper and more plentiful; urban facilities are bad or nonexistent. Kids of all races see the instant money and gratification of the NBA and conclude baseball is boring.

When a college coach asked Nelms for names of current scholarship-worthy players in the city public schools, he was stumped.

Since 1999, Nelms has run Cincinnati's RBI program, Reviving Baseball in the Inner Cities. It's supported by Major League Baseball and the Boys and Girls Clubs. He fields three teams, two boys teams and a girls fast-pitch softball team. He works 20 hours a week without pay.

Nelms knows what baseball gave him - dreams, opportunity and an education - and he'd like others to experience it. But 2003 isn't 1968. Crosley Field is gone. Nobody's handing out cracked bats to wide-eyed kids. Black kids aren't much interested in the national pastime. "We're going to be extinct in baseball pretty soon. Jackie Robinson would be turning over in his grave," Nelms says.

Tryouts for the RBI baseball teams are Saturday at Withrow, beginning at 5 p.m., for kids between 13 and 18. Peer into Chris Nelms' dream. Maybe you'll share it.

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com