Coot had only seen one professional baseball game. Blake had taken him to a game in Wichita to see the Monarchs play the Birmingham Black Barons in an exhibition. The players of the Negro leagues were the best players in the world, Blake explained. They played a different variety of ball than the other leagues. It was exciting and loud. That day was the best day of Coot’s entire life, hands down. Until that day, he’d only seen community leagues of local men who had other jobs. These men played baseball professionally.

When Coot was a toddler, Blake had outlined the rules of the game using a pencil and a peanut bag. It only took one explanation for Coot to grasp the game entirely.

“My goodness,” Blake had said to Coot. “You got a camera for a mind, boy.”

And this was true. Only his mind was more like a Victrola than it was a camera. He could remember anything as long as he heard it. It only worked with his ears. His memory was so good he could remember entire games he’d heard on the radio. Play by play. Word by word. Sometimes he would replay a game in his head before he went to sleep.

He liked the way the baseball announcers talked. They had special words for things that happened on the field.

“Here she comes,” an announcer would say over the small radio speaker. “The Bugs Bunny ball takes a bus ride home . . . King Carl Morris swings . . . Lord have mercy, folks, the King gets caught looking!”

That was the radio’s way of saying “strike three.”

Or an announcer would say, “He’s pitching from the stretch, and there’s the delivery. Crack! Goodbye, Daddy, that train is leaving the station!”

That meant a home run had been hit.

“The King rounds the bases and waves at his fans, folks. This home run is brought to you by Dan’s Hardware, folks. Don’t forget to visit Dan’s Hardware for all your hardware needs!”

Coot stared at the baseball player’s face on the card. He touched the card and wished he were far away, in a stadium, wearing a cotton uniform, playing ball. But that was not his lot in life.

Coot was interrupted by a hard smack on his ear. He dropped the cards and stumbled backward.

E. P. Willard stood over Coot and kicked dust over the cards until they were covered. E. P.’s wide body towered over Coot like a slab of rock.

“Put those things down,” he said. “You’re about to preach. Someone mighta seen you out here lollygagging.”

He smacked Coot one more time for good measure. E. P.’s hand was so fat, it felt more like having a disagreement with a skillet.