The sound did something to him. So did the smacking sound the ball made when it hit the catcher’s mitt. They sat in the nosebleeds, high above the small diamond. Coot watched the men on the field run from bag to bag. These men didn’t just trot like the farmers in the rural leagues. These men were running full-speed, earning their paychecks when they slid into home plate.

And Coot could even hear their voices. The players would scream at each other. The umpire would shout back at them. Cuss words were abundant. Coot found himself shouting at the top of his lungs too during important plays. When the Joplin Miners took the lead against the Wichita Aviators, he became so excited he forgot all about his peanuts in the red-and-white bag. And when the game ended, Coot was sorry it was over.

Afterward, Blake and Coot walked through the corridors of the small ballpark, making their way to the exit.

“You know I used to play a little,” said Blake.

“You did?”

“Little. Wasn’t bad. Had me a chance to play with the Pine Bluff Judges, outta Arkansas, but I didn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

Blake sighed. “A woman, Coot.”

“You mean you were in love with a girl?”

“No, Coot, a woman. That’s different from a girl. A woman makes you do things you never thought you’d do. I was in love up to my eyeballs with her.”

“What’d she make you do?”

“She made me as stupid as room-temperature mud is what she done. There I was, in a traveling show, and she was a high-society lady. The two don’t match up no matter how you spin it.”

“Is that where you learned to twirl rope, in the traveling show?”

“Where I learned a lotta worthless things.”

“What happened with her?”

“She hurt me, that’s what happened. I thought I’d never get over her. Last I heard, she married a banker in Greensburg. Broke my heart. You never get over someone choosing a banker instead of you.”

When they neared the door, Blake stopped walking. Coot could feel Blake’s body tense. He gripped Coot’s shoulder and held him back. It all happened so fast that it took a moment for Coot to even realize that something was wrong. His mind was too much on double plays, home runs, and infield flies.

But Blake’s eyes were fixed on men in the distance. Men with badges. Coot could see them. Four men in khaki uniforms, lingering by the exit sign. One man wore a leather jacket, with a hat tilted sideways on his head.

Blake coughed a few times into his fist. He closed his eyes. He stroked his thick mustache.

“Are those cops?” Coot said.

“They sure ain’t the welcome committee, I can tell you that much.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Hush and follow me’s what you do.”