In 1916 I attended a Wednesday night batting practice. Afterward Isom let me use his glove and he hit grounders to me. The ball jumped offn his bat with a crack and slid past me. I chased it.

“Dont worry,” Isom hollered. “I got a bagful. Git in front of the next one, block it with your body ifn you have to.”

“Hell!” I protested. “That thing’s hard as a rock.”

“Most it will do is knock your front teeth out. Then you’ll look like a ball player. Come on. Keep your glove to the ground unless the ball hops at the last second. Then you got to foller it all the way.”

The ball skipped off my glove and struck me hard in the chest.

“Grab it quick! Throw it back!” Isom screamed.

Furious, I lunged at the ball and flung it. It sailed past Isom and rattled around the wooden bleachers.

“Damn!” Isom said. “That there is an outfielder’s arm. But let’s try a couple more grounders.”

Two balls skittered past me, one right between my legs. “Shit!” I muttered.

Then there come a ball that jumped halfway to me, ran on, and leaped again just before it reached me. I followed it with my eye, poked my glove at it and caught it with a smack that set my palm to tingling.

“Good!” Isom yelled. “Had it all the way!”

I wiggled my shoulders around, cocky-like, and turned the ball over in my hand. It was hard but warm. Throwed with enough force it could kill a man if it hit him in the head. But I had stopped it, damn straight I had. I admired the smoothness of its skin.

“Back up and I’ll hit you some flies,” Isom said.

I stood high upon that centerfield and felt like I was riding the hill, a frozen wave that would crush everything in its path once it was unleashed. I learned to judge the fly balls and seldom missed one. Then I throwed the ball to home plate, pretending they was a coal operator standing there and the baseball sliced him right in half.

I took batting practice, swung viciously.

“Level it out,” Isom said. “Smooth it out. You aint tryin to bash in somebody’s head. Watch the ball in.”

After while he couldn’t get one past me. I didn’t care where the ball went, over Isom’s head or straight up in the air. It was soothing to beat on that ball.

“You swing at ever damn thing,” Isom complained. “Real pitcher would tie you in knots.” But he sounded happy. Then I hit three straight pitches over the left field fence.

“C.J., you got to play,” he pleaded.

“Aint I too old to start this?”

“Thirty-six,” Isom said. “We got two guys older than you. You can play a few year.”